Fragile beauty and whimsical sorrow
by Skylaangelwings
Summary: The blood drips into the cracked porcelain sink and she watches it apathetically as it mixes with the pure water, tainting it pink. Her bloodied hands and salty tears. Her deteriorating sanity. She watches it all ebb away apathetically "Oh, Hermione." a voice whispers brokenly. "What have you done..?" Dramione post-war. Dark, witty and going to be multi-chapter story. Final year.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Okay right this is my first Dramione fic post-war and it pretty much sticks to DH except obviously not the epilogue. May be typos or grammatical errors (so sorry in advance) but I have lots of revising for my exams to do and still need to update my other stories sooo yeaah... Not sure how long this multi-chapter will be plus I'm gonna make it super dark/angsty. Don't worry though I'll still throw in some cutesy aww moments and humour but seen as though I'm kinda hoping that Hermione and Draco bond over their fragile mental states and secrets it's gonna be pretty poignant. Cause I like the hate/love stuff and hot scenes I rated it T for the passion, plus the 'secrets' both have. Hope y'all like it and constructive criticism/questions are good (but like I said with my first fic- not compulsory) Anyway enjoy!**

 **Disclaimer: I own no characters sadly, only the plot...**

 _She was sprinting, tearing across the grounds with her heart thundering in her chest. The fluorescent flashes of green among a whole spectrum of colours reminded her of the ever present danger of death or severe injury. Bodies littered the flies and crows swooped down from overhead lured by the fresh meat. Let them pick at the carcasses, the wizards and witches weren't alive to protest. A vivid orange fireball cannons across the war zone, missing her cheek by mere inches and the hair-breadth distance allowing her to feel the sizzling heat as it charges past. She ducks following the primal instinct bred from self-preservation. The abrupt halt jarrs her battle-wearied bones and skin marred by bruises and seeping wounds. A particularly deep gash in her calf makes the young witch hiss in pain and question when exactly it had formed. The blood was congealing, thank Merlin, but she knew she'd have to treat it within the next hour to prevent infection. The fireball had hit its target and a balding man had screeched with turmoil as the flames engulfed him. Those pretty, magical flames. How she longed to dance in them; free and wild, brought to her knees by her own doing. Mocking her opponents with her courage and resistance to die at their cruel hands._

 _Realising that spectating whilst stationary was sure to end in imminent death she army crawls over the frigid gravel to stumble to her feet, keeping her body close to the Earth for protection. The sorrow-leaden cries and agonised screams plague the air around her. She glimpses witches and wizards alike turning on one another, faces morphed into inhuman snarls or sadistic sneers. A particularly colourful spell is cast spitting sparks at its victim causing the victim's face to melt like it's been splashed with a very temperamental concentrated acid. The spell entrances her, reminding her of the fireworks her parents would buy on Guy Fawkes Night every year. The whirling of sparks highly resembled that of a Catherine wheel and she had to bite her tongue to stop the semi-hysterical giggle rising within. She needed to leave, NOW!_

 _The intelligent witch listened to her inner caution and sprinted towards the front doors of the crumbling castle. The Final Battle was taking its toll on the battered witch and the dismal sight of the wreck of the once-magnificent Hogwarts made her eyes itch unpleasantly with the urge to cry. She pushed the unwanted notion aside focusing on self-preservation and facts instead of the emotions riding mercilessly through her. She scans the grounds seeing all but two Death Eaters immersed in battle. She whispers a quick "Stupefy to the largest of the two. He's stunned, unaware of her presence yet the other, a greasy-haired lithe man, clearly the stunned ones comrade darts towards her yelling incoherently. She dashes to the left not feeling the brief burn of a combative charm work against her left arm due to her adrenaline fizzling in her veins._

" _Expelliarmus!" She cries out, feeling a surge of pride as the man is effectively disarmed. He quickly moves past his surprise though and punches her square in the gut. The move leaves her winded and crouched over at the waist, panting and feeling increasingly vulnerable. The man- was he even really a man if he used killing curses and felt no remorse towards the lives he'd slain?- lunged towards his wand and redeemed it from her slackened grasp. Fighting the urge to retreat to the darkness unconsciousness offered, Hermione used her position to knee the remorseless bastard in a place nobody, especially not a man, wishes to be hit. Swift and savage. Huh, alliteration. The memories of libraries and safety distract her momentarily. Focus on the facts. She runs up to the grounds the cogs whirring in her pretty little head._

 _Fact 1- She needed to find Harry and Ron. Somehow amid the chaos of war they had become separated and she prayed to any existing deity that they were both alive and in good condition. War, she thought resignedly, was a messy thing spurred on by the duality between everyone's inner light and darkness. Poetic in a macabre way. The sound of broken glass and a feminine wail tested her morality and patience. Doubt took root in her Gryffindor indoctrinated mind. The instinct wanted her to RUN, but this time she did one crucial thing and hesitated. Fact 2- The remaining horcruxes had to be destroyed immediately. Nagini, the snake was the last one left, yet she couldn't see Voldemort through the raging crowd. The rubble made her stumble and fall to the floor unelegantly. Her skin peels off her palms as she lands and the crimson blood wells up, joining the dirt, grime and sweat coating her body. Deciding Ron and Harry would be around their nemesis Voldemort, Hermione clambers to her feet and finally spots the wailing woman. The woman's locks are grey from the ceiling plaster and terror shines in her cobalt blue eyes as she wails and begs to a hulking death eater. She;s even, Hermione observes sickeningly, kneeling at his feet. The sneer of disdain on the unfamiliar death eaters face causes a spark of anger to flare up making her discard her instinct and stal towards him. She mutters a curse at him, sure she had not been spotted but it rebounds and she has to dive away in detached astonishment. But-when, how..? It couldn't have been him who'd blocked the curse it must've been one of his wizarding allies. The man had, however, now noticed her and with a sadistic smirk he'd drawn his wand menacingly as she searched in the rubble frantically for hers._

 _In those panic-searing moments her heart pounded even more rapidly and she'd felt nauseatingly exhilarated by the action-filled events. What's wrong with me? Have I been so exposed to death and fear that I was now succumbing to the madness of revelling in my own impending doom? In response her blood merely boiled with anticipation and her fingers twitched at finding no wand. Her tormentor was talking to her- most probably words of mockery, self-pride or cliched villain quotes- she really couldn't care less. She nearly rolled her eyes at his rant, Merlin's beard he;s as talkative as Ron after a Chudley Cannons quidditch match. The giggle burst from her lips at the silly, rather trivial comparison, and she turned away from the man's reaction still looking for her isplaced wand. She finally saw it half-hidden under an immovable wedge of rock. Shit. Not good Hermione, this is not in the least bit inspiring her sluggish thoughts. No shit sherlock, the instinctual voice reprimanded sarcastically, if you'd have run instead of being a buffoon and taking on a brawly death eater… She rolled back on her back realising in her last few moments before the luminescent green killing curse was fully completed and before the darkness embraced her into its warm abyss-like depths was Fact 3, a typical thing for her mind to revert to before her last moments on Earth. Sadly her dwindling consciousness did not reflect on her childhood memories or on the magic and wonder, as well as the heartbreak and life lesson Ron, Harry and her Hogwarts life had shown her. No her analytical thoughts were much more directed at the mantra gallanting over and over in her head. Fact 3 was obvious to er in her painful moment of clarity- I'm going to die._

She spun through the darkness, falling down, down, down… Like Alice, sweet innocent Alice, tumbling down the rabbit hole. She startles herself awake, forcing open her eyelids to sense where she is. Am I dead? Hermione questions, taking in her surroundings. It looked like a wine cellar with the wine bottles sleeping idly on dusty wooden racks. The walls were a slate grey concrete and the floor dark wooden slats. The only light came from a small rectangular window on the far left. She attempts to stand up from her chair, only to find ropes tied firmly across her torso, ankles and wrists, rendering her pretty much immobile. The little light only accentuated the scattered shadows, invoking a fear and hysteria in the trembling witch. The nightmare, she realised, was her last memory and questions buzz i her mind like aggravated bees. Where am I? What happened in the war? How did I survive the Avada Kedavra curse?

A figure strides out of the darkness. His hair looks dark blonde in the dim light but she knows it to be much lighter, and is ruffled as though his slender fingers had raked through it often in the past day. His face was pale, a corpse pallor and his silvery eyes latched onto hers. In his gaze was an instability, a wildness and unpredictability. His ever-present smirk was absent, erased by sorrow and wariness. He paced in front of her dressed in dark jeans and a black t-shirt. He immediately began pacing in front of her once he'd checked she was fully conscious and his hands, she noticed, were balled into fists. His movements were graceful even when full of tension and she couldn't help but notice the bandage peeking under his t-shirt hem when he stretched.

"Malfoy?" She croaked out, voice rough due to screaming and shouting when fighting. She licks her cracked lips with her tongue, uncertain as to her predicament. Draco Malfoy flinches at his family name.

"Draco. Call me Draco." He tells her wearily.

The war had weighed heavily on him too and as he looked at the alert witch with cinnamon orbs and bleeding wounds he sighs deeply. Her doe eyes looked so wide and innocent, and the intellect swirling in her depths as she tries to configure her situation makes him intrigued. Didn't the Mudblood realise her being alive could get him killed if the Dark Lord or his pets ever found he couldn't have just left her at the hands of Marcus Kreston- a brute known for toying with women before he killed them- _no_ , he couldn't do that. So instead he'd thrown a crucio curse at the beastly man and gathered her unconscious form in his bloodies hands. Questioning what the fuck he was doing with the annoying know-it-all he simply _loved_ to torment. All the way to the deserted Malfoy manor, he'd doubted his sanity. Why did he save her? Was it to distract the fog of depression which threatened to drag him down into its murky depths? Was it the way her eyelids fluttered lightly as she dreamt and the warmth she radiated as she snuggled into his body as he carries her? Was it to protect the Golden Trio's smartest member, finding the death of her intellect a shame to the wizarding community? He didn't know… He glances at her calculatingly and he stares back, refusing to back down from the stare out. Ah, how he'd missed the Gryffindor bravery. He was particularly amused by her resilience despite the smog of terror smothering the whole community.

"Fine, Draco then." She concedes softly. "Where are we? What happened?"

" I brought you to the Malfoy manor, in the wine cellar to be exact. I don't know the outcomes of the war or all the repercussions because I had to save your sorry ass from the brute you so recklessly challenged." He sneers, eyes darkening to a steely charcoal at Marcus' words to her, strangely she had looked unafraid of the spiteful venom dripping from the Dark Lord's favourite henchmen. He watches her absorb this information and pauses in his pacing to watch her.

"You have to let me go back." She states calmly. She sees his eyes widen with incredulity.

"Are you _insane!?_ Do you have a death swish or something? I just rescued you from that hell hole, why on Earth do you want to go back?" He exclaims, voice rising gradually to a shout. She meets his frantic eyes with her calm gaze. "I need to help Harry and Ron." she murmurs, gently. "I need to help them." Draco shakes his head vehemently, completely opposed to her death.

"No. The fuck you are." He hisses, eyes burning like magnesium embers.

" You don't understand." She insists, "They _need me!_ I need to help them stop Voldemort and his cronies. I'm not gonna let those bastards win."

"They need you, huh? Well, answer me this Granger, where were they when you needed _them_. I saved you, not them. _Me_! And I'm not gonna let you put us both at risk by going back out there." Her eyes obscure with unshed tears but this time the emotions crash over her mercilessly like waves and waves and the crystalline tears roll down her muddies, bloodies cheeks.

He sees the tears, the exquisite remnants of emotional trauma and a pang of guilt hits him. Surely not? Why should he feel guilty for her pain- his father had told him they were lesser beings, tainted by their muggle upbringings… So why did he feel sympathetic towards the impulsive young witch? What was it about her which made the urge to comfort her, to stroke her curls and relieve her pain, rise up within? He walks towards her and digs in his pocket for something. Hermione catches the shine of something metallic and with a startled gasp sees the knife as it nears her. His face is set in a cool, expressionless mask, making her wonder if he was going to kill her. But what would be the point of saving her if he was just going to kill her anyway? To exact vengeance on the boy-who-lived and the red-headed man she'd kissed passionately in the Chamber of Secrets. Surely not.

In an elegant flick of his wrists he slices the ropes binding her, then crouching down does the same to her ankles and wrists. Her heart slows to a steady tempo, immensely relieved at his compassion.

"I'm sorry." He mutters quietly as he pulls off the ropes , freeing her from the chair. "I didn't mean to make you cry." She can only gape at him in shock at the apology. Malfoy's didn't apologise; they were way too arrogant and proud to follow such ethical concepts. And yet here he was, her tormentor, looking at her with a peculiar mixture of determination and vulnerability. The mad part of her, the one who was tempted towards dancing in the flames, causes her to cares his cheek fondly. He stiffens at her touch and gives her a pointed look, curious as to what she's doing.

"You are like a teacup." She murmurs fondly.

Draco merely raises a skeptical eyebrow as if fascinated by her lilting tone and strange statement. "Because-" she continues, those chocolate hues turning dreamy as if temporarily insane "- you are beautiful yet fragile. A curious combination if you ask me." The mad girl releases the mourning boy and they simply stare at the other as if entranced. The moment is broken when Draco huffs out a sigh and stands up to get her the First Aid bag, carefully concealed behind a wine cabinet and some musty old crate. The dust motes waltz in the air between them and Hermione has a minor internal freak-out at the insane part of her, rudely shoved to the side by her usual personality. Draco returns and she sits still as he tends to her wounds.

"Won't we be discovered?" She asks him. He shakes his head slowly, a dark cloud hovering around him like a dark aura. She doesn't dare to probe deeper. Instead hashing out a sketchy plan: "Why don't we stay down here for a few days-"

"No. We must stay here longer." He interrupts, pouring a bit of vodka into a deep gash on her leg. She bites her lip to stop a whimper at the pain, shutting her eyes which are still slightly damp. "Fine, a week. Two at most. Then we do a quick recon, I tell Harry and Ron and the others where I've been and-"

"What if they are dead?" Draco questions, threading a needle in preparation for stitching the gaping wound.

"Then I find the Weasley's, Kingsley, Neville. Whoever is alive and on my side."

"And then what?" He prompts, keeping her talking through the painful procedure. A trickle of blood runs down from her lips from biting so hard and she tastes the coppery tang on her dry tongue.

"Then we need to help build up Hogwarts and deal with the repercussions of the Battle. If Voldemort has won, I'm going to seek the rebels and keep fighting, If Harry somehow stopped him, I'm going to pay my respects to the dead and help rebuild Hogwarts for what I presume is our final year." He ties up the loose thread, and moves on to the other injuries, smearing antibacterial cream and placing plasters wherevers necessary. Hermione catches sight of his dark mark, inky black and writhing upon his forearm and he watches her contemplate it silently.

"You can come with me." She finally utters. "I know you can't really be as evil as you try appear to be." He retreats, emotions flitting across his face too quick to comprehend. Until his face finally distorts into the sneer he used on her to reflect his disgust during their time at Hogwarts.

"Why-" he begins quietly, an undertone of danger thrumming each word he speaks "-would you think I'd want to join a filthy mudblood like yourself and the two douchebags who don't fucking die."

"Because you don't really believe that." She replies stubbornly, eyes flashing with righteousness.

"Salazar's tongue, are you really that stupid Granger? Of course I believe that." He denies, ignoring her hurt look.

"Look at my blood Draco! Look at it!" She shoves a cut on her wrist under an artery in his vision. "My blood is just the same as yours. We bleed the same all us muggle-borns, half-bloods and you purebloods, because we _are_ the same. 'Death is the great equaliser.' Well so is our blood. I cannot help what family I was born into it is beyond your or anyone else's control. Or did Daddy dearest not teach you that?"

Draco looks at her blood and his prejudice dissipates like smoke in a breeze. He lifts his eyes to her feisty ones, sparking intoxicatingly. He can't help but see her as so, painfully irrevocably alive in that moment as she glares at him. He keeps quiet only showing his acceptance of her and all she used to represent with a curt nod of his head. And so they sit near one another, deep in thought and loss only moving for necessities such as food, water, bathroom breaks and to change bandages or apply serum. A comfortable quiet surrounds them as they lose themselves to the spiralling questions and memories. They dwell and mourn the dearly departed and sometime around evening when the dusky sky dims the cellar, Draco leaves to return with an armful of blankets and something clutched half-hidden behind his back. He throws them onto the wooden floor , mumbling at Hermione of how he's going to sleep downstairs for the first few days in case anyone comes looking for them. Hermione nods and throws together a pretty cosy den for the both of them. They lay down, not too close but near one another regardless soaking in the silence. Draco sits up and crosses his legs reaching for his other retrieved item. It is a bottle of Whiskey- Jack Daniels to be exact- and looks to be unopened. She sits up as well, watching non-judgmentally as he cracks open the lid and takes a long swig of the liquor.

"Please may I have some?" She questions feeling abruptly too consumed by the worrying and loss. Draco chuckles darkly at the goody-two-shoes staring longingly at his bottle. Ahe shivers unwillingly at the tempestuous sound.

"Who'd've guessed?" He teases lightly "That little Miss morals would want my liquor?" She rolls her eyes, "Oh give it up. I need something to distract me." She snatches it from him and smirks wickedly a her boldness. Tilting the bottle to her lips she gulps mouthful after mouthful of the fiery liquid. He doesn't stop her. Merely waits for her to pass it on so they can drink companionably with one another. How surreal it is to be sat in a cellar with his old arch-nemesis swigging alcohol to escape their tumultuous thoughts. The night descends and with it the eventually are lulled to sleep by the ambiance. And they lay in tranquility, both broken pawns in the chess game forever altering theirs and many other witches' and wizards' lives...


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Hey! I'm really sorry, I said I'd update in a couple of days and I left it like a week or so later... In my defence I had my end of year exams because it's test week (whoopie doo! *sarcastic eye roll*). Anyway, I was gonna do a kind of fluffy chapter to ease it up but then I thought during a revision session 'Nahhh, I want my characters to be emotional wrecks first, before I make 'nice' scenes. Fore-shadowing stuff is super fun but I'm trying to make it not too obscure which is kinda tricky. Anyhow, I should probably stop rambling and get to my point. Right, well firstly this chapter is DARK, and angsty (so this is the mild warning) and as always I own none of the characters just the plot, a stack of books to read and a cat who growls at you if you go within a metre radius of him. :) Enjoy!**

When Hermione woke up to a throbbing headache drilling relentlessly in her skull and a rancid taste festering on her tongue, she didn't have the cognitive ability to recognise her surroundings. Instead, she was deceived into thinking she was drunk in the Gryffindor commons- a rare party event, which lulled her falsely into the pretense of safety and comfort. Instead of looking where she was ,and what- or whom- she was resting on, the brilliant witch merely screwed her eyes more tightly shut and burrowed her face deeper into the warm, rather solid pillow she was rest- _wait, a solid pillow? One that moved slightly in a rhythmic pattern of rising and falling._

Her eyes fly open- quizzical of why her pillow was solid and why an icy breeze was rippling over her back, a small segment not completely covered by the fluffy blanket. Her eyes look down and widen in shock, and a little bit of horror.

 _What the hell is Draco Malfoy doing here? Wait, why am I lying on his chest!?_ Gradually realisation plods across her sleep-bedraggled mind and she rubs the sleep from her eyes as she quietly remembers yesterday. The nightmare. Being tied to a chair. Draco talking- then face softening. Him stitching her gaping wound, which ached like a bitch today. As well as her other bruises and cuts harmonising with its whines. _Am I- is this for real? Did I really drink whiskey with the boy who'd tormented me, Harry and Ron for six whole years?_ She chews her lip thoughtfully, which accidentally reminds her of the bitter taste of liquor coating her Sahara-dry mouth. She envisions- indulges really- in the memory of the homemade Weasley fudge. Of the special hot chocolate her mother would make her on the dreary days. On her mother- sweet Caroline Granger-'s teary-eyed smile when she won her first ever spelling bee at the young age of five. How she'd bandage every bruise and scrape with a tender kiss at her 'clumsy' daughter. Or when Hermione had first performed magic at seven years old, when the mean bully Henry Reddings wouldn't give her her favourite book on: Fairy Jessamine, and how Caroline didn't scold her when she saw her daughter make the nursery books flutter out of their shelves and fly around the terrified bully in the secluded reading corner. No, Caroline ,as the only adult around, saw that her giggling amber-eyed little girl was just a little more special than she'd thought. Imaginative and smart. Magical…

Hermione smiled at the memory of how her mum had crouched in front of Henry telling him he was imagining things; Hermione Granger couldn't _possibly_ make books fly like fairies, he was just tired. How, after he'd scuttled away like the cockroach he was, her mother had advised her gently to only do things like that in mummy or her own bedroom, where scaredy-cockroaches couldn't tattle tail. She remembered solemnly pinky promising with her eternally loving mum and-

The memory vanishes abruptly when Draco- _who I'm still partially laid on-_ wriggles in his sleep. She observes his sleeping form, in curiosity. The ever-present frown lines are gone, smoothened down as he sleeps, oblivious to the world. His long blonde lashes rest gently on his high pale cheeks and his lips- those lips the girls used to titter and gossip about- were slightly open, his slightly larger lower-lip jutting out slightly in a manner which made him look slightly dazed. He honestly looked… Youthful. Innocent and angelic, like the first few snowflakes descending from the heavens. _Or like the young boy_ \- she mused wistfully- _he might've been before his indoctrination into the dark side. Before his father corrupted him. Before he hated muggle-borns with fervor. Before he grew jealous and manipulative._ At least she hoped that's what he was as a young child. Untainted by the tragedy his life was to become. Strangely, the words of her mother came back to her in a vivid burst of spontaneity: " _Some people, sweetheart, are born with tragedy in their blood_." At the time- in the uncomplicated year of being eight, her mother's words had seemed strange and trivial. What should she care about her blood? She already knew she was different to the other girls and boys. Her fascination of classic novels and education alienated her from the others before they ever became suspicious of her hidden magical talents. No, her mother's silly words had just seemed rather untrue and unnecessary, like "don't watch too much television or else your eyes will turn square", or "if you swear your tongue will turn black". She feels a sudden pang of loss at having her mother- the only person to have ever unconditionally loved her-'s memories slated away. A tear escapes her eye before she even realises that her vision is remembered disregarding the statement as some quirky little quote meant to encourage empathy towards others. But now… Now she wondered on it. Was Draco one of those misfortunate few who'd been raised badly and so now was truly bad at heart? The six years of mockery seemed a good reason as any to say HELL YES- but- but he'd saved her. From that beastly man on the battlefield with his luminescent killing curse and, then again yesterday, preventing her from infection.

Draco wriggled again, the peaceful resting morphing into something suspiciously like a nightmare. He balls his fists in the sheets as his angelic face contorts to a grimace, eyebrows drooping worriedly and a crinkle twisting his rather beautiful aristocratic features. A bead of sweat forms on his hairline and she looks down at him, uncertainly. Hermione reaches out a tentative hand and shakes his shoulder lightly, drawing back off of his chest in case he flails.

"Draco? Hey, Malfoy?" She mutters firmly. He doesn't appear to hear her, and a shudder rolls across his body. His next breath is a pant and the pictures he's seeing in his mind must be pretty craptastic because the next thing he does is _growl._ It's rather short and husky but with the undertone of fear and the promise of bloodshed. _Aw, heck._ Hermione thinks.

"DRACO!" She yells, finally making his eyes snap open, and turn to meet hers, agitated and fearfully. He sits up, and glares at her.

"Granger? What the fuck are you doing here?" He growls, spitefully. She's taken aback by the aggression but barrels ahead regardless.

"You brought me here, remember?" She replies, half-exasperated. She watches him as he sifts through the hazy memories and sees the exact moment realisation hits and the pieces fall into place.

At first Draco was sure the mudblood was pissing with him. He'd already dreamt something foul and the sight of such- such gory, spine-breakingly, horrific memories, lingering like the cloak of death, had made his tone sharp and his memories sluggish. That and the after-effects of the alcohol. But, no, Granger was right he _had_ saved her from the brute and cleaned up her injuries. He'd made civil- or at least as civil as he could under the circumstances-talk, and had shared the liquor with her like old friends, thinking and chatting amiably before they fell asleep…

A headache thrums duly behind his eyes and he gets to his feet slowly, making sure the room was no longer spinning before making his way silently out of the cellar door.

"What are you doing?" Granger asks from behind him. He can't be bothered to reply and only detachedly notices as she slips out of the wine-cellar after him. They make their way to the kitchen, both too tired and confused to talk. Finally they reach it, his favourite place in the whole of the manor: the kitchen. Draco smirks at the memories of cooking here with his mother, all those years ago. When they would reprieve the elves of their duties so they make the most exquisite of dishes while his father was away at the ministry. His mother, contradictory to his father (who'd always turned his nose up at the thought of doing such manual, _lowly_ work) had always had a passion for cooking, always insisting to him in hushed tones how if you could cook a good meal you'd become accustomed to the tasteful things life offered and how it always was a therapeutic labour, which would be enjoyable and calming. He'd agreed and even now, seven years on, he still found certain pleasure in slicing vegetables and adding spices to aromatic dishes.

Hermione watched inquisitively as the Malfoy heir began pulling ingredients out of the large fridge and retrieving things from the pantry. He had a half-smile on his face as he was flitting around the kitchen, and she found it pleasantly surprising he was well-acquainted with the art of cooking. She's always presumed it would be much too- too _inferior job_ \- for a higher-than-thou Malfoy. "What are you doing?" she repeated, softer this time. Draco shot her a look rich in condescension and with that one disdainful glance, she remembered _why_ she'd always disliked the young pureblood.

"What do you _think_ I'm doing? Writing a letter?" He sneers, patronizingly. Her face flames with righteous indignation.

"I was only _asking_ , Malfoy. No need to get your knickers in a twist." She quips, eyes rolling at the spiteful boy. He aims another sour look at her.

"I told you not to call me that." He mumbles, under his breath.

"I'm sorry, what? Malfoy is your name isn't it? When did you tell me to call you otherwise?" She questions, half-exasperated and half-befuddled.

"I told you it last night, remember? Or were you too busy sucking down my whiskey to pay any notice."his lip curls. The remark stings a little. Yesterday, especially last night they'd reached a… Camaraderie of sorts. Yet today? Ugh he was acting like such a spoilt little brat again, pretentious and cold, like his Slytherin friends.

"What the hell is your problem? Last night we were _fine_ , yet today? You're being a right prat." She remarks matter-of-factly. The tone, so similar of the one she always used during their school years together, sets him on edge and makes his eyes narrow meanly at her.

"You, Granger. You're my problem. You're in _my house,_ under my _hospitality_ yet you-"

"Yet I _what, malfoy?_ I try to be civil to you and yet all you do is just throw it back in my face! We've already discovered that my blood is no more tainted than yours-" Draco bristles, reMembering his words, yet seeing his father's eyes looking at him in shame at the thought of his son forgetting his lineage. Hermione blathers on, oblivious to Draco's mounting fury "-and we're stuck in the same situation as each other so you might as well stop giving me crap, okay?" She stops, feeling proud of her rant at him, hoping- sadly in vain- that he would heed her plea for peace. She watches him warily and he looks back at her with the cool indifference he wore like a mask.

Slowly, ever so painfully slowly, his lips twitch into a humourless, _dark_ grin. Her heart beat jumps in apprehension; she unconsciously steps back from his darkened presence. He stalks after her predatorily, slow and graceful like a panther all the while grinning that frightening smile…. Her back hits the wall and her hand scrambles for her beloved wand. Twitching her fingers to feel the comforting wooden stick in her capable hands. And then, with a dreadful streak of remembrance, she recalls how it is downstairs. Among the blankets she'd been swathed in earlier. Before Draco had his nightmare and woke up in an unpredictable mood. For not the first time today, she curses internally. A colourful stream of explicits that would make a sailor blush.

"Granger, granger, granger." He cajoles, wickedly. "When will you ever learn, huh? You are _inferior_ , you mudblood attention-whore. You think I don't notice how you secretly crave the spotlight Potter-" he sneers at his word, disgust evident in his velvety-smooth voice "-basks in. You think I don't know that you always look- _so damn dismayed_ \- when your idiot friends hand you their half-assed homework, _using_ you over and over for your brains. Not your character, just your bookish intellect which grants you a spot by famous Potter and his BFF Weasel's side. And do you know what, mudblood? _You will always be the sidekick."_ At his last hiss, he caresses her face with one slender pale hand, almost caringly. He looks at her pityingly, as though the smartest witch was really just some dumb, deluded fool, blindingly following the wonder-boys like some gormless tag-along. And then, as the agonising analysis sinks in, her back becomes rigid and her eyes _flame_ with anger. She suddenly doesn't feel so trapped by his body caging hers against the wall, both radiating heat, and instead she feels brave. Like the Gryffindor Princess her house ruled her out to be.

"If I'm the sidekick than what are you, _Malfoy?_ Cos you're damn well not a villain. No... _You_ are the filthy mole. The cowardly wimp torn between wanting to hurt people yet too cowardly to submit fully-" she points at his forearm, where the inky death eater symbol gleams under the kitchen lights "-to the Dark side. You never truly did decide which side you supported, did you? Due to what? Fear? Some twisted fear of going too far, enfing up in Azkaban like Bellatrix is sure to? Maybe you're right, maybe I do now and again want to be the heroine of my tale; instead of the bookish best friend who is compelled to save the hero's butt a few times. But what you don't understand is that I love my friends and they love and trust me back just as much. I may not be the 'leader' of my friends, but I'd rather be ignored once in awhile, than be the leader of snakes with hearts of stone and a non-existent sense of morality." She pauses, if only to pour some more salt and harshness to her vocalised venom. Feeling a savage pleasure in watching Draco Malfoy tense and reel at her blunt words "- Despite what you think my blood is most certainly _not_ muddy. And no matter how much you might think otherwise, you're not even worth _half_ of the man both Harry and Ron have grown to be."

He absorbs all of her words. Feeling the knife twist deeper as she repeatedly mentions her fan-fucking-tastic friends, their incomparable loyalty, and how Pothead was just _so_ wonderfully better than him. _Yeah, right._ He thought to himself as she lectured passionately, a light pink tint colouring her cheeks. When she finishes, he has a moment- one small, enlightening moment- when a voice deep within him tells him to _leave._ To go for a fucking walk, or punch a wall or, or _something._ Because he knows, in that starting moment of clarity, that whatever the hell he's going to say next will scar her. He's always been one with words, "manipulative and clever," his mother- one of the few family members who gave a rat's ass about him- had told him when he was five. Even at _five_ he'd been scathing and ruthless when in pain or very, very angry. And in that moment he knew that despite Granger's 'noble' lecture, she didn't really deserve the calculated words ready and waiting, precisely chosen to inflict damage where he knew people hurt the most. But the voice- the logical, ethical voice- was overridden by the devilish taunt who _liked_ invoking fear and fed lasciviously off of loathing. It was even more stoked, this devilish creature, by his own self-loathing for his occasional doubts and blasted 'morality', which had only ever caused him and his family issues, when he gave in to it. And that nightmare… It twisted his gut and re-kindled the spark of violence which simmers inside him.

He leaned down, closer to the furious, young witch and his hands placed on either side of her head on the wall behind her. To anyone who might've been watching them from a distance, they looked like some intimate couple, lost in one another's presence. Spurred on by the tension, to be closer, to touch and kiss the other like newlyweds might. But to them it meant something else. Draco liked the close contact due to being in proximity to watch first-hand her reaction. Hermione predictably disliked the enclosure as it felt way too intimate and intrusive. She watches his narrowed charcoal eyes, sees the swirling loathing and devilish gleam, in the depths of his intense glare. She glares back, wavering at what he was going to do- hit her? Shout at her? Kiss her? The coiled tension in him made her unusually nervous and made her courage duck tail and flee, like a puppy might when faced with an intimidating wolf.

"Cute speech." He mocks, winding a chestnut brown curl absent-mindedly on one finger. "Did you just re-iterate some lesson from some muggle ethics book and spout it back out at me? Sometimes Granger, I think you're different. I see your intelligence and your blinding loyalty and burning anger, and I wonder why you stay where you are, as you are, following the two dumbnuts around like they are your personal messiahs. And then I realise- you're not as brave and smart and fiery as you try to be. In fact I don't really think you are at all. After your lengthy speech I feel you're rather vindictive. You can be callous and cruel just as much as any other Slytherin. You're not brave but _stupid_ , wanting to save the world from your subjective view of 'good' and 'evil', recklessly following the fools who left Hogwarts under the thumb of some of the most wicked Death Eaters. Where's your 'loyalty' now, _Hermione_!? Where were the 'Golden Trio' when snivelling Longbottom pissed his pants on the classroom floor as some teacher _Crucio'd_ him til he passed out? Where were you when Seamus was forced under the Imperius curse to be my Aunt Bella's little bitch. Or when the students were slapped and beaten. Tormented and squashed over these _twisted thumbs._ I heard about your Horcrux hunt-" he confesses, his smirk holding a bit of sadness all of a sudden "But you didn't know that Harry- _the chosen one_ \- was a Horcrux as well, did you? You mock me of my morality but how can you truly say that all Death Eaters are evil and all 'Dumbledore's Army'- or whatever the fuck you gallanting knights call yourselves now- are good? Did you know that Pansy Parkinson, the one you all think is a spiteful bitch, is actually adopted due to being raped and mistreated in her childhood? Or that your best friend, Ginny the Weaslette, fucked Zabini in his dormitory before she was on a 'break' with Harry. Oh, wait no, this one- this one might hurt a little bit. Especially as you and Ronnie-kins had apparently become 'close' during your treasure hunt. Did he ever tell you how during your little horcrux-hunt he sent rather suggestive letters to Lavender, which I coincidentally once intercepted-" he pauses and searches her hazel eyes. Hermione senses the harsh feeling of betrayal punch her innards more effectively than a physical blow. How he'd learnt all this, she didn't know. How the conniving bastard had managed to turn her heart bloodied and raw, she didn't know. But the painful words settle on her skin, marking her soul, making her question Ron and the fond looks he'd given her. Made her question Ginny's mindset and why she'd go against Harry like that. And Harry… Was he really a Horcrux? But Dumbledore had said that there were...Oh _fuck-_ there were seven!

"You're lying." she mutters weakly, shutting her eyes so he can't see the doubt that must be portrayed on her face. Her legs feel like jelly as the world shifts slightly. Becoming a little bit more grotesque. A little bit more depressing. She feels his hand cup her chin and she knows her lips are trembling. Her heart feels sore at the prospect of losing her closest friend to death and Ron- _how could he? Especially after his jealousy with me and Harry, an-and the kiss-_ at how she maybe was losing him to the rival she had never even known existed…

"Hermione." his voice murmurs. She shakes her head: _no._ "Look at me or I'll make you look." he threatens, still in that sweet, honey-smooth voice. She opens her eyes and sees those striking eyes staring back. Honest and wide and unwavering.

"I'm not lying." he tells her, honestly. He cocks his head to one side, calculatingly. "Now, can you see that the world is made up of greys..? I _personally_ know death eaters who hate killing people, hate spilling blood and taking a life, but have to. The Dark Lord may have their children tied up and screaming in pain under his merciless wrath. He may have raped their wives or slaughtered their kin or stolen their most prized possessions, only letting his reap rewards when their hands are bloodies, they are desensitised against horror, indoctrinated into hating others. He enjoys hovering their families above their heads like fucking food against a starving man. So are they evil, Hermione? Are they all as 'twisted' and 'malignant' as you said them to be. _Fucking, no!_ We can't all have perfect lives wrapped in the love and goodness which your naive little self thinks we can. And now, with Potter being a Horcrux… What are you going to do if he's alive? Would you murder your dearest confidant and friend for the good of the whole society? Would you let him live, out of love, then live on bitterly as Lord Voldemort corrupts the wizarding community? So don't try feed me the good-and-bad _bullshit_ , Hermione Granger, because no matter what your blood type you are still just as entangled in this chessboard game as I am. We are both pawns in this _fucking game, no matter what side we are on._ So yes, you may have a bloody higher IQ than me, but no _fucking_ way are you less of a cruel, manipulative bitch as all the rest of us."

The tears run freely down her face now. His words have left gaping holes. Despair and resentment, denial and loss, loathing and agony, they all bubble up inside her. The salty tears keep flowing, tumbling down, like her pre-conceived notions. There are too many questions, too much loss, too much doubt… And yet this blonde psychopath had done it. He'd _fucking_ summed up what was going on, and he'd dished it out as insensitively as possible. She just- didn't know what to do. Her heart ached for her mother's warm, open arms. For her books which would offer escapism from the predicament she was in. But she couldn't find escape, oh no, not now. Not when he'd laid out the cards and taken all the chips like the players they all were. All the while watching her, his permanent mask of indifference only broken by those expressive steely eyes which shone with honest determination. She wasn't angry anymore. Well. she _was_. She was pissed at the world, the screwed up wizarding world (which was maybe even more flawed than the muggle one), pissed at herself for being so naive and ignorant, pissed at Voldemort for being a heartless, merciless, maleficent bastard, who deserved to be Crucio'd til death. Or hung, drawn and quartered like they did during medieval times in muggle history. And she was just-just….

Her tear-filled eyes, her fragmented hope shattering in the inch or so which was between them, meet his. Hazel meets bluey-grey. Fire and ice. Both elements of nature, yet completely opposite. The air feels electrically-charged and she both despises and marvels at the tension between them. Strangely, she feels more connected to Draco Malfoy than she'd ever been before in her life. He was her, but born on the other side of the spectrum. She was him, now heartbroken by knowledge, and wisened, by the disturbing truth. He knew she understood him a bit better, but he didn't dare drop the emotionless facade. _Better for her to hate him than_ _ **become**_ _like him._ He justified it, mentally.

She didn't bother to brush away the salty evidence of her emotional pain, instead she mustered all that was left of her dignity and left the room, saying a crude "Fuck you, Malfoy". He simply watched, sadly, as she departed, the door shutting her out with an ominous finality.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Wow, guys and gals; I'm on a bit of a story roll today! Whew... Well I'm sorry if this chapter seems a bit strange(and trust me it was NOT my plan to well ship a certain pair. But I must warn you- it is dramione so although there may or may not be moments in the story you doubt it is a dramione fic, I needed ,well, a certain said character to be in love with a certain someone, so that there will be a noticeable difference between the person he/she used to know and the one he's/she's yet to meet. Sorry if my story seems a tad gloomy at the moment (I promise that I won't make all the characters downhearted or douches!) Confused, much? Anyway thanks for all you who have been reading my story and favouriting etc. Pumpkin pastries to all you lovelies! Enjoy... P.s I'm editing this sometime tomorrow to check for mistakes etc. so if you see any I'll try remove them soon.**

Harry Potter was feeling hopeless. He'd defeated Voldemort- heck he'd even died- at least the Voldemort part of him which was bred due to after-effects of the scar- partway through the process. Most people, like himself, were feeling somber. Joyous and relieved, at the final death of the most evil wizard to ever walk the Earth, yet quietened by their losses and the masses who had died in the fight for good to triumph over evil. It was six days now since the death of Voldemort, and six days since Hermione had vanished. People told him they were truly sorry for the loss; they all believed her to be dead, although no one dared say it outright. Instead they'd share mournful and pitying glances behind his back or whisper about his genius best friend in the past tense, as though already used to her death. It- it hurt him. It made his stomach lurch whenever he thought of her inquisitive hazel gazen, and ,the smiles she might share, blissful and untroubled, showing no hints of her rocky youth. He had confided in her, whispered his darkest fears _of not making his parents proud, his guilt at living when they couldn't, his secret hatred for being in the spotlight_. And in exchange she'd admitted her true past, the one not many knew about- or could even dream of- the Golden Girl having. She'd told him once, ashamedly, how she sometimes longed for the spotlight. But not for her intelligence to be broadcast, or some petty, cheap fame. No, Hermione Granger wanted people to _like_ her, if not love her, for her character. Not her status or grades. But her personality.

He admired that about her. How she was so truthful with him and had entrusted him in her rather closed circle of trustees. He knew that her mum used to be a member also, but she'd told him of wiping her parents memory for the sake of keeping them both safe. He'd met Caroline Granger- only once without her husband present- and she was a stunningly caring woman, true at heart and empathetic, not just the polite dentist muggle most knew her as. He also knew, that Caroline Granger would rather _die_ , than let her only daughter come to any harm. He'd vividly recollected how when he was about to leave Hermione's respective, muggle home Caroline had been insistent, almost frantic, that he take care of her daughter. The wide-pleading look had been rather astonishing; yes, he'd known normal parents love their children, but Caroline… She almost had an aura of desperation in that surreal moment. As though she knew something that noone else did that would happen to her girl. He'd agreed, whole-heartedly, knowing in that moment there was no way he could take away this woman's only daughter and not protect her from harm. _Yet where had he been when she'd vanished?_

The guilt stabbed at him, making him wince and rake a hand restlessly through his already thoroughly tousled hair. His bright green eyes look up, into the worried expression of the barmaid, and he sighs wearily. Tired and upset and-

 _Oh my fucking Merlin! Was that ginger-haired boy snogging Lavender what's-her-name, Ron?_ Harry was dismayed and actually rather annoyed at his best friend having the audacity to snog another girl only _six bloody days_ after Hermione's disappearance. His eyes narrow on the fire-redhead and he briefly considers storming over their and calling him out on it. But them he remembers the hospitality the Weasley clan had shown him after the Final Battle (that's what the paparazzi vultures were calling it right now) and merely shrugs off the resentment. He stares longingly down to his empty glass of butterbeer, craving something stronger- something with enough of a hit- to leave him buzzed and forgetful. He liked that. He liked the temporary high which was set off and it reminded him of a stronger high, which he'd felt when he was around Hermione. When she laughed at one of his rather cringey jokes or lectured passionately on the mistreatment of house-elves; the whole S.P.E.W triggering a reminiscent smile to lurk on his face. He believed, deep down, that Hermione was not dead nor dying. He was certain, with that Potter arrogance (or intuition as he, like his father, preferred to call it) that he would have felt it if she had died. And therefore, due to his heart not spazzing out or doing particularly anything beyond the constant heart-ache, that she was irrevocably NOT dead. Plus, it had only been six days. He remembered the first three days, where he'd gather search parties, or recklessly meander off on his own, to find her. He'd apparated to all the places he would have assumed she might've hid out in- maybe to recover from war injuries?- and she'd been disappointingly absent. Paris- the place she's told him she always wanted to travel to- had not given him a clue. And after hours upon hours of looking through libraries, inns, towns, forests, seaside retreats and visiting the acquaintances and friends houses they shared, his mind had grown strained and his heart hollowed. Heck- he'd even checked in at her mother's house- where Caroline had muttered about not having a clue whom the strange, wild-eyed boy was babbling on about, and giving him the reserved smile adults tend to give, when they don't particularly welcome your presence.

He drooped his head low, staring at the remnants of froth, feeling downhearted and reserved. Ginny had not accepted his mournful state, exclaiming that while he 'mourns like Sydney Carter', she was going to grieve separately, in her own way. He knew she was still bitter over their temporary 'break-up', but recently Ginny had kind of… Fell off the wagon. She was parting without abandon now the war was over, and would traipse into the rebuilt Burrow at early hours of the morning, covered in glitter, stinking of cigarette smoke and losing her heels in the dancing. She'd look ruffled, too. Lips swollen, ginger hair ruffled, skirt slightly crooked. He frowned. It was his fault in part, he shouldn't have lead her on for so long, and he now knew he'd made a fatal mistake in dating her because she had once crushed on him in the way he wanted Hermione to. There, he'd finally said it. Or thought it. _I'm in love with Hermione Granger._

It was liberating, in a way. A spring breeze on a muggy day. Or like the sip of lemonade when your mouth is parched. He pushed his glasses further up his nose, contemplatively. What was it about her? Was it her bravery? The way she knew her ethics like he did, and could tread the line when it came to it? Was it the beaming low she emitted? Or the fireball temper she had, the one which caused her to hit Malfoy right across his pure blooded, pretentious face, making him drop the smirk and run away like the snivelling baby he is? He unnoticeably, to him at least, grinned into his beer cup and the barmaid continued to watch the boy-who'd-lived with a server curiosity, one which sparked her to work at The Three Broomsticks. The curiosity which drove her, Rita Skeeta's youngest cousin- to become very, _very_ good at wheedling information out of others. And he, the young hero crouched self-despairingly over his second empty beer-mug, was as intriguing to her as a flame was to a moth. Some part of her was whirring with questions over why he looked so upset? Why he was now grinning? Why he'd looked angry at spotting his supposed friend. However, unlike her famous, animagus cousin Rita, she knew it was best to keep whatever she learnt to herself and only help out if he so requested.

Meanwhile, Harry was wondering- _rather unhappily-_ how the war had affected them all. It had only been six days, so it was not yet fully determined which people had changed and to what extent- as it was way too early to fully hypothesise. He grinned at the very complex-sounding word, musing whether or not Hermione would've hugged or smiled at him had he said t aloud in her presence. Knowing her, it'd probably be both. Staying on track he listed some of the main changes that had occurred while she'd been gone. _Well, firstly, Ginny has turned to partying at muggle and wizarding clubs alike. Ron has-_ he glanced back over at Ron, noting with a bit of disquieted incredulity that he and Lavender were still latched onto one another's lips. He thought it had been around ten minutes or so since the last time he'd looked over, which was, wow, a long time to spend smooching- _well Ron was becoming very player-ish. The other day I'd seen Parvarti and him kissing at one of Ginny's party events. Plus he seems to be soaking up the media attention like a sponge. Sometimes over-exaggerating the details, which usually wouldn't irritate him. But it did. Because Hermione wasn't around to reprimand him for it. George Weasley was, well rather subdued by the loss of his twin, but dealing much better than his younger siblings by grieving normally with his older siblings and even visiting Bill and Fleur in their seaside retreat to help come to terms and accept the loss of Fred. And me? Well, I'm sat here staring at an empty mug, feeling heartbroken , and realising way too late that the girl I love is probably-_

"Find the meaning of life in there?" a voice stis him from his thoughts. It's the barmaid, a pleasant looking woman only a few years older than himself with blonde curly hair and pale green eyes. He looks down at the empty mug and nods wearily

"Something like that," he mutters, with a polite grin. The woman nods, looking sympathetic, and holding out a small tanned hand for him to shake. He does, noticing his rumpled white button-down shirt, jeans and sneakers pretty much make him look like some self-pitying a seventeen-year-old, hurt by his true love. He pondered, momentarily, how many of those she'd seen before. Probably too many to count.

"Want another one?" she offers, "It's on me." He shakes his head and politely declines.

"I probably shouldn't." he explains with a small smile "I wouldn't half mind a lemonade though with ice." The woman, who from her nametag (which only displays the first name of staff) says: Alyssa. She winks at him before she flaunts off, and he blushes slightly at the attention. His mind drifts, as she serves another customer, who's causing trouble further down the bar, and it returns to the rebuilding of Hogwarts which was a slow and tedious process, even with magic. The bell chimes and two girls arrive, giggling and whispering together as they seat themselves a little way from him at the bar. He knows, without turning, that there are quite a few empty booths and tables, so them moving there- near to his 'fame and glory'- was a deliberate, purposeful move. He huffs out an irritated sigh and thanks Alyssa kindly when she returns with his lemonade. He's about to stand up and leave to one of the more shadowed area of the pub, when something the raven-haired, native-american looking girl says something particularly interesting.

"-apparently he's been missing since the day of the Battle, y'know?" Harry sits himself back down and cranes his head subtly to the side to listen in better. The other girl, a brunette with her light-brown hair scraped into a messy ponytail, makes an 'ooh' sound.

"So what do you think happened to him?" ponytail-girl says. Raven-haired girl's dark eyes light up with excitement at the gossiping-tale. She lowers her lone slightly, for dramatic effect, then says- "I dunno. But some people have been saying that he's up and ran now that he has his death mark and could be sent to Azkaban. I heard Daphne Greengrass- one of his old friends- tell Pansy Parkinson that something terrible happened to his parents so _I suspect_ he's become one of those vigilante guys, seeking vengeance on the dark side… Ugh, but if he has I'm gonna miss his hot, smirking face once we all return to Hogwarts in a few weeks time."

The other girl nods, reverently, making the off curl come loose from the already precariously slackened hair band. "Uh-huh, no kidding. Slytherin wouldn't be the same without him…"

 _So, someone had gone missing on the same day as Hermione had? From Hogwarts, no less! Maybe, just maybe she was holed up with some- hopefully half-decent- Slytherin guy, fixing their injuries and that she's not dead._ Harry thinks to himself. A spark of hope ignites in his chest and he turns to the two gossip girls, his heart picking up at the prospect of seeing Hermione, alive and safe, again.

"Excuse me?" he begins. Ponytail's jaw drops and even raven-haired looks star-struck that _the_ Harry Potter was talking to her. He resisted the urge to roll his eyes or, the opposite and feel his pride swell at their obvious delight. He'd remembered when he was crushing on Cho and had teased how he was 'the Chosen One', and Hermione's outraged reaction to it. She'd hit him with a book, keeping his ego in check so he couldn't- _thank Godric_ \- become half as cocky as Cedric Diggory and Viktor Krum, both who'd lost something dear by the end of the TriWizard tournament. For Cedric, it was his life, for Krum- it was Hermione. And maybe a bit of his pride too (at losing).

Raven-haired recovers first, flashing a flirty smile (which he pointedly ignored- not to be rude, but just because, well, he didn't want to act like Ron. Plus it was extremely hard to fall for a girl now he was semi-obsessed with 'Mione.) He continues on, before they can introduce themselves and coerce him to take their numbers. "But I couldn't help but hear you said someone- from Slytherin?- ahd gone missing on the day of the war. I was wondering as to who that would be, if you don't mind?" he added a smile, to try soften up the girls who, out of all the Hogwarts houses had a reputation to be the most private and secretive. Rarely airing other's dirty laundry outside of the Slytherin house. It was like it's own separate world in a way, secretive and only loosely accepting (with Slytherin mentality) how everyone would only pass rumours and stuff between its own house unless it is part of some scheme for the rest of the school to know.

The girls exchange a long look, laden with imperceptible head nods, twitches and miming, which made Harry slightly uncomfortable around them. He wasn't used to Slytherins, and as a whole he damn well didn't trust them- not after all the school stuff with Malfoy. They eventually come to a conclusion and raven stares directly into his green eyes with a seriousness which clashes with her giggly personality. A frown dusts her face, making it serious and hardened.

"You _did not_ hear this from us, okay? And as much as we- well, she-" she jerks a thumb at her friend, who snickers behind a french manicured hand-"- wants to, we can't give you our names or numbers-" he nods, seriously too wound up to look disappointed, "-because of Slytherin secrecy. But I heard that Draco Malfoy went missing on the day of the Grand Finale."she finished, conspiratorially. His mouth gaped open and both girls, excited by him being so floored, immediately start blabbering at once to him about it. Between the two voice he configures he was last seen helping some brunette from a killing curse and was glimpsed carrying her in her arms. She only briefly outline this- probably assuming he'd dropped said brunette off at some pit stop like the selfish jerk he was, then gone on to fulfill some amazing, yet rather unrealistic adventures.

Harry composed himself and let them speak until they had to stop and breathe. They sipped their cokes and peered at him, ecstatic that _Harry Potter_ was listening on their gossip and had asked to be a part of their 'Slytherin secret'. Harry, however, had been compiling his thoughts and realising, despite the possible risks it was the biggest lead he'd gained os gar on Hermione, so was therefore his duty to protect the young woman he love from Malfoy, wherever he was keeping her. He sipped the last sip of his lemonade then thanked the girls kindly and left.

Alyssa, who'd been surreptitiously listening in, was curious as to the story of the missing students and wondered how Harry Potter was wound up in all this. But the only conclusion she drew for certain, bei th via her partly-seer blood or her knack at judging people and hunches. But she knew, she just _knew_ that she'd see Harry Potter again at her bar, and that maybe next time she'd figure out _exactly_ what was going on...


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Hey guys and gals! Sorry for the late posting, I've just been super busy with school and a bunch of other stuff so this chapter is kinda short and sweet..? Anyhow, I can't tell you how many times this was re-written (due to me struggling with whose point of view to write in). Next chapter will be flashbacks (methinks) and obviously to tie up a few loose ends in this chapter. Anywaay, sorry for the long A/N, enjoy!**

Hermione Granger felt like a mess. Her heart was in tatters, her fingernails cracked and bitten down to stubs from the fretting she'd been doing and her hair resembled a bird's-nest with its tousled unkempt state. It had been five days since her argument with Malfoy- _no, Draco-_ and yet she couldn't help but hear his words repeat over and over in her mind like a song set to replay. There was only so much ducking in corridors and spasmodically spent hours of sleep a girl could take without going half-mad. She stared unseeingly down at the book she'd borrowed from one of the many pristinely stacked shelves, and huffs out a weary sigh. She was sure she'd been reading the same line for over three times now, yet not absorbing a thing. This, of course, only amplified her unhappiness and sense of hopelessness. With her wand she closes the book and makes it float back to a shelf across the room. The 'Leviosa.' spell reminds her of the class she took in her first year and how irritated Ron got when she performed the spell perfectly. A smile tugs at her features, before she remembers Draco's harsh words of his " _suggestive letters"_ to Lavender. _Could it be true? Was Ron really just stringing me along while he played hooky with Lav-Lav on paper?_

A gentle knock taps out on the door. She was currently in the study and between the writing desk and spacious floor stacked with bookshelves and reading ladders, she was alone in the room.

"Go away, Draco." she calls out, dismayed that after five days of hiding and sneaking around like a sleuth, she'd been discovered. The door is pushed open and she spins in her chair and stands to face him.

His hair looks damp and darker in the evening light and the comforting scents of aftershave and green apples cling to him like a familiar robe. He's dressed in dark jeans and a forest-green tee-shirt, which almost makes the witch snort at the fact he's wearing a very Slytherin colour. He hovers awkwardly around the entrance to the room and she finds it bemusing at his hesitancy in approaching her.

"Can I come in?" he asks her, voice unexpectedly timid, for someone usually so cruel. She nods once, crisply, and he steps in, shutting the door and leaning against it once closed.

"You've been avoiding me." he states simply. Hermione knows it's not a question yet nods to affirm it, not once meeting his eyes. "Why?" he blurts out. She stares at the desk with it's grainy oak texture, roughened and stooped by countess weighty books placed upon it. She looks at the ceiling with its chandelier crying droplets of diamond, looking strangely desolate and abandoned, like the rest of the Malfoy palace furnishings. She looks at her clothing, a simple black dress with lace trimmings, one she'd conjured using old spells and had mourned in. She looks and everything and anything except in. His presence is lured closer to her, like a moth to a flame.

"I'm not going to apologize." he admits to her, "Because everything I said was true." Hermione doesn't react, keeping her eyes trained away from his ever-approaching figure. "But I-I am sorry." he adds, reaching her at last, and only a half-metre away. "For how I said it all. I admit I could've handled our dispute a little better." She's touched by the apology,much more than she lets on. And heck, she had been counting windows in boredom theses last few days. She meets his eyes and nearly starts in shock. His eyes are ringed with purple but there's something off about his eyes. The silvery-grey is present but his pupils are widely dilated and she swears a flicker of movement is glimpsed at through the so-called "windows to the soul". Her hands cup his jaw, turning his face to different angles to gain a closer look. He lets her do so, silently observing in curiosity as she bores her own hazel orbs deep within his skull.

"I'm highly adept at Occlumency, Granger." he smirks "So your legilimency won't work on the barriers I've forged."

He feels her body, softened y curves and encased in a glowing warmth, pressed lightly against his. He doesn't understand why she is examining him so thoroughly but concludes it is best to come up with some sort of code to determine the other is who they say they are, in case unwelcome visitors use unfair means to trick them into entry. He voiced this to the analytical witch and they both choose the others code names so that is what they say upon their next meeting. Hermione stops looking in his eyes, and rocks back to her feet, drawing distance between the pair. "Your code name shall be 'Samael'" she says finally, smiling beatifically up at him. And with that one line, Draco knows the broken-hearted witch had forgiven him. He hugs her upon an impulse and she responds with fervor. They cling to one another like long-lost companions and the amiable silence that descends afterwards could've been cut straight from one of those muggle Hallmark cards. Draco steps back first, with pang of regret, which causes doubt to stir across the murky depths of his brain. "Why Samael?" he coughs out, needing the moment to be broken because it was asking him feel a little… Out of control.

Granger tucks a strand of hair behind her eyes and recounts how it is the Jewish name for the devil, and is most commonly known as an archangel who is confusingly both good and evil. At this Draco raises one skeptical eyebrow, smirl unfurling along his impassive sculptured expression. Hermione giggles, and to Draco it reminds him of autumnal leaves falling and the sensation of cinnamon coffee freshly brewed by his best friend Blaise Zabini and the contentment of winning a particularly trying Quidditch match. Her chocolatey eyes gaze into his warmly and the urge to destroy this brave and broken girl, to tear her compassion to shreds, to destroy the drug she's presenting to him readily rises up within him. He quells it, remembering the last time he succumbed to his darker side, and the tear-stricken face she had presented him. He forcibly recalled the hours he'd contemplated it afterwards, hating the way her strong-willed naivety had dulled and how her strong capable hands had trembled. It had caused his stomach to clench- _indigestion-_ he'd sworn to himself and didn't want this same _indigestion_ to recur again. Hence the peace-making.

 _You're like a drug dealer._ He thinks to himself.

Hermione's eyes narrow in suspicion and surprise. _Salazar's tongue, did I just say that aloud?_

"What in Merlin's beard are you talking about?" Hermione frowned, quizzically. _Shit, I did…_

He drags in a resigned sigh "I meant that you are like a drug dealer because you offer me the most dangerous and addictive drug of all." For a brief moment, the smartest witch appears dumbfounded, assuming he means _love,_ something Malfoy's tended to not hold the capacity to feel. _How could he, being Lucius Malfoy's only son?_

"Do you want to know what that drug is?" Draco whispers, his voice rough. Hermione nods dumbly, as if in automatic mode. He opens his mouth to tell her-

 _BANG!_ A loud sound from downstairs interrupts the saturated moment like an ice-cold bucket of water chucked over them both. Draco crouches down and yanks on Hermione's arm to keep her close to the ground with him. The sounds of footsteps echo across the hallway and he crawls behind a bookshelf, mouthing a insistent 'FOLLOW ME' over his shoulder. Hermione replicates his actions, heart choked up in her throat and pounding in exhilaration. Both believe the trespassers to be Death Eaters, perhaps vile ones wanting to exact vengeance on the ones who'd got away. Draco stops when they are behind the historical texts section and turns to the musty spines, kneeling calmly before them. She watches him in horror as he stops to page through novel pages from a purple-spined serie.

"Draco." she hisses, furiously "This is not the time to be reading books. In case you haven't realised, there are bloody intruders in the house." Draco glances at her, sending her a curious look before shrugging and turning back to Volume Three. A blush blooms across her face as her impatience towards the arrogant git intensifies. He's now murmuring under his breath and she wonders as to what the _hell_ he's doing. Footsteps near the door, one set light and airy, the other clunky and solid. The sound increases and a cold sweat breaks out down Hermione's spine. Draco, ever-so-calmly, places the book back on the shelf and draws his wand. He utters a soundless spell and then...


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Hey gals and guys, I'm sorry to have left you on a cliffhanger but I suffered a sucky case of writer's block :/ luckily inspiration struck and Ta Da! New chapter! Anyways thank you all so much for reading and favouriting/following I seriously wish you all pumpkin pastries and chocolate frogs *smiles* :) Disclaimer: I am not JKR and never will be *cries* Forewarning: this chapter is again dark and pretty long but I promise I'm gonna try to ease up for the next couple of chapters. I'm sorry for the long A/N but I'm a newbie to the community and was wondering if anyone would like to be my beta? I so PM me. Anyway back with the story- Enjoy!**

 _"Draco." she hisses, furiously "This is not the time to be reading books. In case you haven't realised, there are bloody intruders in the house." Draco glances at her, sending her a curious look before shrugging and turning back to Volume Three. A blush blooms across her face as her impatience towards the arrogant git intensifies. He's now murmuring under his breath and she wonders as to what the hell he's doing. Footsteps emanate from near the door, one set light and airy, the other clunky and solid. The sound increases and a cold sweat breaks out upon Hermione's spine. Draco, ever-so-calmly, places the book back on the shelf and draws his wand. He utters a soundless spell and then…_

A very thin wisp of ashy grey smoke trails from the wand before it ebbs away, effortlessly dissipating into the air surrounding them. _It was rather anti-climatic_ , Hermione thought, and if she wasn't so freaked out by the fact the intruders were _just outside the door,_ she would've told Draco so herself. His eyes were determined however and the rigid set to his sculptured jaw signalled that whatever he was trying to achieve from that spell, it required continued effort being poured into resuming it.

Mutterings from outside eke through, before the door crumbles, the grand oak cracks and folds upon itself, fragmenting into pitiful scraps of wood. The noise it makes causes the floor to quiver in fear and Hermione involuntarily edges further into Draco's solid side. Her heavily-lidded eyes fly open as she assesses the amount of debri. The dust motes swirl and the first person to enter is obscured by the dust cloud. Cradling her wand, Hermione casts a softly muttered incantation, and hears a satisfying _thump_ as the leg-locking spell ensnares its victim, causing him (she had determined it was a him by the buzz-cut hair visible through the smog and his strangled grunt of surprise) to fall like a leaden weight to the ground.

"Watch it!" the other one exclaims. The cloud settles, settling onto the floor and walls and coats the body laid like a carcass and swearing profusely on the floor. The one who's not spell-bound lights up his wand and the 'lumos' quickly illuminates the study. Hermione sucks in a breath, anticipating the wand-bearer to lock his beady little eyes and sneering face on her and Draco at any given moment and curse them into oblivion. She didn't like this- the maliciousness, the crackling tenseness, the sweat beading at her hairline. The companion is dressed in black combat pants and a black tee-shirt as well as a- _wow, what a surprise:_ black cloak like his incapacitated friend. Their death marks which look a faded grey flash under the ambient glow of wand-light.

Draco places a hand on her arm and she looks down surprised at the sight. His hand is surprisingly warm, considering he comes across as such a cold-blooded snake, and rests lightly on her forearm in a comforting gesture. She fixes her amber eyes on his liquid silver ones and is amazed at how expressive they are. He seems to be pleading with her to keep quiet, to stay still and- most of all- to not give up hope. His strength feeds hers and that Gryffindor courage she's renown for flares up despite the helplessness of the situation they were stuck in.

"Get up!" the beady-eyed wand-bearer hisses at his companion. "You fool, you are going to get us both killed!" Buzz-cut makes a grunt in response and a sick smile unfolds on the standing man's wrinkled face. Without any further notice the standing man draws back his leg as if he's about to boot a scoring goal in football. Only there wasn't a ball. And this wasn't a game. The leg strikes the incapacitated man with a loud _crack!_ Hermione winced at the sound and the agonised scream of the victim. Beady-eyes draws back his leg again and again. Kicking the screeching man's ribs until pearly bones jut out and fleshy pulp dribbles from areas where the ribs have broken the skin's barrier. There was no reason for it- no clear-cut reason as to why the nimbler beady-eyed bloke would cause such a grotesque attack on his fellow comrade- and no taunting jibes accompanied the beating, only the sadistic smirk of a man far too entrenched in the darkness to see the wrongness of his ways.

Draco was also incredibly sickened by the act. But unlike Granger, who was burying her chestnut curls deeper into his chest, barely stifling her whimpers and moans of horror, he had seen much worse things in his past. Writhing bodies under the crucio curse, blood-traitors being stripped and lashed, women watching their darling children being hit and slapped, spat on and raped: these are the vivid memories he recalled when he retired to sleep. He'd tried it all: sleeping draughts, liquor, being hit unconscious and spells. Nothing worked to prevent the malignant images which lurked behind his closed eyes. He shook of his stupor to look down at the witch snuggled into his side. He felt a rare surge of pity for her- he knew that she'd been tortured by his Aunt Bella and had seen a great much of loss for a witch of her age- but he found he didn't want her to see this. To see such an unprovoked and gruesome event, one of many he'd been embroiled into since a young age to observe. The spell he'd cast was working- _thank Merlin-_ so they were at least temporarily completely obscured from sight. It was an ancient spell, one which drained his fatigued body of his magic and strength- because unlike mere disillusionment charms, this particular spell meant that even if the monster (for he could not at all see a hint of humane traits within the ghastly person before them) went to where they were, he would pass through them both as though they were ghosts and not corporeal humans attached firmly in the physical realm.

The pulpy remains of the man shuddered on the grimy floor then spewed a blackish vomit clotted with blood and what Draco assumed was stomach lining. _Fuck_ he thought shakily _Vomiting blood is a sure sign of internal bleeding. Plus the fact he'd been having his ribs smashed in ment his lung would most probably be pierced and he'd suffocate to death._ Draco Malfoy was a unique boy with many talents, upon the surface most saw him as a snivelling cowardly death eater- too weak to kill Dumbledore- and too stupid to joining the Order. This wasn't the case at all. But most people couldn't see past his facade and drew their conclusions off of false or misunderstood evidence. A great example of this was now when, amidst the witnessing of a Death Eaters murder, Draco was not overwhelmed by disgust or fear but could force down his emotion to analyse what was going on and how exactly the dying man was hurt. His anatomy studies as well as nearly every subject Draco aced at, and so it was in sad detachment he watched the scene play out before them.

Partway through this, Hermione had come to her senses and was wriggling to try put an end to this torture. Draco knew this is what she intended to do though, being the reckless noble fool she was, and also comprehended that this was part of the reason beady-eyes was kicking the man to his death. He wanted one of them to move, he wanted the noble little witch to cry out and reveal their location, putting the young sorcerers in jeopardy.

"Draco." Hermione mouthed, doe eyes wide and insistent "Let me go." He shook his head vehemently, piercing her with a threatening and determined stare, "No, it's what he wants" he muttered darkly under his breath. The young witch continued wiggling, compelling Draco to wrap his arms fully around her (his wand still clenched in one steady hand) and pulling her closer into his side. Her warm, soft body reminded him of their close encounter the other day, and his breath hitched perceptible. Granger thankfully didn't seem to notice his strange reaction to her because she was currently struggling to weasel out of his iron-clad grip. Being the sensible witch she was, she stopped after a few moments, resigning herself that she should conserve her remaining energy on the cretin who'd intruded the Malfoy manor.

He was now finished with his murder, and stepped back calmly as if to admire his work. The young witch's lip curled in contempt, unconsciously mimicking the sneer that used to grace the Malfoy heir during their Hogwarts days. The Slytherin in question had stilled his face into a cool, placid mask and only the clenched jaw and slitted-eyed glare revealed his loathing of the murderer. The cretin in question brushed some lint off of his cloak and smirked down at his fuck-up masterpiece. A glob of saliva spewed from his mouth and landed on the man's paling face. Like a mockery of a tear it slid down the bruised man's cheek and dripped onto the thoroughly ruined woodwork.

"Come out, come out wherever you are." the inrudor cajoled harshly. The lilting voice stoked Hermione's temper and she longed to lunge at the evil man. Draco was torn- he needed to keep Granger, not to mention himself, from getting hurt and he knew there was a book somewhere within these tomes which would cause a trap door to act as a refuge for them both, yet at the same time he wanted to dispose of this cretin as quickly and efficiently as possible so as to not cause disturbance in the Manor or cause the twisted follower to go crawling back to his Dark Lord telling tales of the surviving Malfoy and his Dirty Little Secret. Before he could make up his mind what to do- Granger had slipped from his grasp and yelled "Expelliarmus" at the man. _Fucking Gryffindors!_ Draco had chance to think before the wand flew across the air to the heroic witch. The cajoling man smiled at her and Draco knew without any real reason what the man would do next. Cretin had smiled at her, even though he was disarmed. He even had the gall to walk towards her, that soulless smile etched on his blood-spattered face. Draco dropped the spell and muttered a fire spell he had watched his Aunt perform before. The man's cloak was engulfed in orangey-red flames and Hermione wisely used the momentary distraction to start to mutter a spell Draco remembered much too vividly.

The pain in her amber eyes almost matched the fury she felt towards this wicked man. Draco had seen what violence could do to people- how it corrupted the blood like an imperceptible venom and could cause their pure, innocent hearts to go devoid and depraved. For some inexplicable reason he hated the idea of the Gryffindor Princess and Golden girl committing such an ungodly act as murder or torture. He shoved her urgently, causing her to stumble and break off her 'Sectumsempra' curse. Unfortunately, the cretin had vanquished the flames and with a snarl on his lips had launched towards the girl. Draco intervened and they both crashed to the floor in a tangle of limbs. Cretin landed a punch on his cheekbone which made a sharp pain sluice into his brain, Draco covered his head and bucked up to try dislodge the smaller man. However, the man may have been smaller but he sure as hell was much stronger than he looked, and was undeterred by the movement. Instead he started raining punches down on Malfoy smirk firmly in place. Hermione watching the scene as the two men tussled searched desperately for a weapon. She would've casted a spell but it was much too dangerous with Draco so close to the man. Knowing her luck, she'd most probably hit him by mistake due to all the rough moving around those two were doing. Beady-eyes let out a hurt grunt when Draco wedged his knee in an opening and into the man's stomach. He used the pain to land a blow to his chin, shattering his jaw. Cretin retaliated with a headbutt, breaking the younger boy's nose which erupted into a bloody fountain. Draco then did something that caused the smug bastard to lose his malevolent smirk and cry out. He'd bitten hard and decisively into the foul man's neck.

The coppery, slimy consistency of blood washed into his mouth as he broke the skin and sliced through his carotid artery. _Ugh,_ Draco winced internally _, why he ever thought that_ _ **biting**_ _the man was a good idea deserted him_. Especially as now the man was screaming for his wand and a long string of curses which would make even Voldemort blush. _Could the Dark Lord blush?_ It was a surreal thought, one which he couldn't quite visualise happening with the waxy-faced, serpentine, ruby-eyed, megalomaniac. Why was he even thinking of such perturbing thoughts that made him try- key word being try- imagine Voldemort like some japanese school girl. This of course led his mind to flail in a desperate attempt to get away from the weird-ass imagery which followed from that internal monologue.

He remembered what the hell he was doing and took a strange comfort in the horror of sucking the blood from some mindless tainted follower than picturing Voldemort as a japanese blushing schoolgirl. Draco shuddered. _Am I going mad? Has the war finally caused me to lose it?_ Luckily he was saved from pondering that as he concluded it was all just the fatigue and death catching up to him making him think such crazy shit. Such as anime Voldemort and-and how bloody hot Granger looked knocking the man he had been biting with a weighty wood plank.

Hermione panted, jittery from knocking the foul man unconscious using a large piece of the destroyed door, and glanced down at Draco to check if he was alright. His gaze appeared full of awe before he shuttered his emotions in that irritating way of his. He scrambled to a sitting position then promptly vomited up the blood he'd been gagging on previously. She watched him as he pinched his spurting nose at the bridge to stem the bleeding and saw him rake a hand through his blonde hair restlessly. She offered a hand which he took and they both stood looking at the two men. One murdered by someone he'd trusted and the other spared unconscious by someone who was a foe. The irony made Hermione want to cry. How fucked up was the world when enemies became more merciful than the trusted.

The adrenaline stuttered out of her like a heart monitor's final beats and she turned to Draco in weariness. He was looking down at the two with something akin to pity in his eyes, but she didn't have the energy to muster up musings on the sight of it. She spun until she was directly in front of him then trembled. Draco's eyes left the two fallen and he seemed to understand exactly what she was going through. It didn't matter that they had fought a few days ago, nor did it matter that his past bigoted self would've gladly mocked the vulnerable witch. It didn't matter of their different backgrounds or who the fuck they were friends with because they had both seen an act so unspeakable that they were as intrinsically joined as Hermione had been with Rona and Harry when that troll had roared its last roar. Maybe even more so because watching a murder like that play out in front of the bookish witch had left an impression that altered her world a little more off-kilter.

Draco opened his arms slowly, his mask faltering to allow the loss and pity, fury and hurt, and solemn understanding- blessed, silent understanding- shine through. And that was all she needed. Hermione fell into his arms, clutching his shirt and sobbing against him as though he were her life-raft and she was fighting off of drowning. He stoked her head, murmuring pretty little nothings against her trembling form. Yes- he was damaged and had enough secrets to suffocate him but the young witch was quite obviously struggling too. She was feeling the full consequences of war and he was deeply sad that she had to experience all that. It was this heartbreaking embrace between the two which caused a very peculiar promise to be made between the two. Unbeknownst to them both- this promise was to alter the very course of life to come.

"Why did he do that!? Why would he murder his companion like that?" she sobbed incredulously.

"I don't know." Draco replied. He had theories but he knew now was not the time to share such things.

"I'm not scared of dying." she confessed between ragged breaths "I'm terrified f becoming like that-" she jerked her head at the unconscious Death Eater drooling next to his mangled 'friend'. "I don't want to become a monster." she whispered, melancholy.

Draco put one finger under her chin and made her eyes lock with his.

"I promise you Granger," he whispered fiercely. Bravely daring her to argue against him. "I will never _ever_ allow you to end up anywhere near as damaged and corrupt as him." The amber eyes glistened with tears at his protective words. He knew it was time for her to rest- to sleep off the early morning horrors. Just then the rising sun made it's daily appearance, splashing golden rays across the destruction of the library.

He steered Granger out of the rubble and through the hallway. He took her to his room, where he could keep an eye on her in case any other Death Eaters appear as she slept. The adjoining bathroom made him hesitate and he decided to try run a bath for her. He grimaced at how uncomfortable it might be for her to sleep with someone's blood on their clothes and under their nails. Plus waking up would be awful. And so: he ran her a bath, gave her some folded clothes and patiently waited on his desk chair as she bathed and re-dressed herself. It was no use pretending to read, her sobs distracted him and caused guilt to unnerve him. Her eyes were red and puffy when she entered the room in his old quidditch shirt and rolled-up sweatpants. But at least she was no longer bloody and dirty and dusty. Granger smiled at him then- it was a weak forlorn smile- and hovered awkwardly near his bed. She started towards the door but he stood up and said: "Don't." She spun round quizzically then.

"I'm no healer Granger," he started a little shyly at what he was about to propose "But even I know that someone who's just been through trauma requires bathing, sleep and food…" she blinked at him, _perhaps still a little numbed by this morning's events?_ So he carried on; "I'm not willing to keep you at a different section of the Manor while I clean up, so I'd prefer it if you could perhaps sleep here for awhile- at least until I've sorted the study a few rooms over and cleared the parameter so we are safe." She looked highly skeptical at the word 'safe' and arched her eyebrow dubiously. A smile twitched the corner of his lips and he rolled her eyes at her silent stubbornness.

"Fine, maybe not _safe,_ but at least make us saf _er_ by putting up some more complex wards, Salazar knows how easy those buffoons got past them, and then making us both some food." Hermione stands and contemplates this. He doesn't know what runs through her intelligent mind (probably pros and cons of sleeping in his room) but finally she conceded and climbs into his emerald green sheets. This time he does smile and once she's settled he has to practically force himself to leave, murmuring one final promise to the sleeping witch.

"I will save you…"


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: I'm sorry, sorry, sorry for such a long time between this chapter and the last (*eek* pls don't send crazy Aunt Bella's reincarnation after me!)... Anyways, to make up for it I've done as I promised in the last chapter and created a fluffier chapter (not so heavy on the angst this time guys and gals ;)) so I hope you enjoy! Thanks again for all those sweeties who are reading/following/favouriting etc- you rock! p.s It's summer holidays after tomorrow for me (yay!) so I pinky promise to write after I've gotten back from France (8 days after this friday I'll be there)- anyhow on with the chapter!**

When Hermione awoke it was to a pair of worried grey and silver eyes which loomed over hers. She blinked, then blinked again, sluggish from sleep. "Malfoy?" she croaked out, dazed.

"You were having a nightmare." he explained, leaning back a little from his cross-legged position on the bed. Not _her_ bed, Hermione noticed, but a cosy emerald bed with well-worn cotton materials. But then again, Hermione thought sadly, she hadn't slept in _her_ bed for nearly a year; and nor would she in the near future since she'd obliviated her parents memories. Draco frowned down at her, blonde hair falling into his stormy eyes. Hermione was struck by how handsome he looked in the dusky twilight and how his company drove off the fading demons parading her nightmares. _Don't be stupid, Granger._ She scolds internally: _He's only worried because of what happened earlier. He would never fall for a muggle-born like yourself._

"Hermione?" he prompts, brushing a strand of her hair behind her ear. She smiles before she can suppress it. "I'm shocked Malfoy-" she drawls, bunching fistfuls of the green covers in her hands. She smirks in a very Slytherin manner; "I always pictured you were more of a silk kind of guy." He chuckles, amused by her pondering of his bed material. To be perfectly honest, he found silk a little… Tacky. Most used the fabric as a way of boasting their wealth and grandeur as though they had something to prove when really the slippery cloth was much less comfortable than the homely, warmer cotton.

"How long have I slept?" she asks him once his laughter dies down. Draco glances at the clock on his bedside table- it was charmed to look like a real snake and would slither and hiss before spitting out the time- "Sixxxxxx thirrrty-sssseven". Draco rolled his eyes and muttered a small spell to freeze the moody snake into transforming back to a normal alarm clock form. Hermione let out a breath she hadn't realised she was holding and turned to say thanks to Draco. Instead she found him lost in thought, his eyes cast slightly downwards and his lower lip lightly chewed as he frowned in concentration. It was interesting to observe him, the observer, for once and she used his 'thinking time' to take in his presence. He had washed since what Hermione liked to call 'the incident' and now smelled of green apples and some masculine kind of body wash. She could faintly smell the coppery scent of blood but seen as though he had latched onto that foul man's neck- she wasn't that surprised that the bloodiness wasn't fully gone. He'd also changed- into grey sweatpant and a white top. She wondered whether these were his pyjamas then cursed herself for wondering such trivial things.

"Want to stare a bit longer, Granger?" he teased, an amused smirk on his face. _Damn, why did he have to be so attentive all the time?_ As if reading her thoughts, he snorted. "Don't worry- I'm not using legilimency on you and reading your thoughts or anything. I could see what you were thinking on your face." she frowned and this made him laugh again. His laughter really was nice- it was carefree and joyful, at odds with the demeanor he usually represented. _Confusing, much?_ The laughter prompts her into letting out a shy chuckle herself and the amiable moment settles the air a bit more.

Suddenly, she breaks off from her laughter, recalling in vivid detail what happened earlier, replaying the images like it was on some torturous mind-loop. Draco, noticing her pause, quietens and ever so gently traces her cheek with the tips of his fingers. "What's wrong?" he questions, caringly. Hermione shakes her head, her eyes shadowed. It feels like a graveyard of words have died unspoken on her tongue. It is especially bizarre considering words were always the things she valued most, the written texts treasured and revered by her knowledgeable brain, and many a time words were the only thing left when she lost everything dear to her. Now even words had deserted her…

Draco stared at her- _when had it come to pass that me and Granger would end up boarding in my Manor, hiding out and protecting one another instead what we were taught to do: to kill (or in Granger's case most probably just immobilise) the other into submission._ A quote from some muggle book he had once come across rose into his mind, matching Hermione's speechlessness and turmoil harmoniously. "' _There is something about words. In expert hands, manipulated deftly, they take you prisoner. Wind themselves around your limbs like spider silk, and when you are so enthralled you cannot move, they pierce your skin, enter your blood, numb your thoughts. Inside you they work their magic.'"_

Hermione listens to his soft, melodious voice in rapturous wonder. "Th-that was beautiful." she utters. Draco's silvery long lashes droop in modest gratefulness.

"No, seriously Draco, where did you hear that?" A mischievous smirk overrides his shy expression and he taunts, a daring inflection in his voice: "Wouldn't _you_ like to know." She scowls at him- _Ah, here is where jerk Malfoy was hiding._ She shuffles up to a sitting position against the headboard and shuffle-crawls out of his bed. The embarrassment and horror hits her over the head like a brick when she realised that- _Oh my Godric, I've just slept in Draco Malfoy's bed._ This is succeeded by a rush of snarky thoughts over how many girls must've been in the Slytherin Prince's bed and all the germs that must've collected with the compilation of skanks. She forgets about his presence as her thoughts darken at the paranoia of him bragging to his Slytherin comrades of 'bagging' his renown _mudblood_ enemy.

She forcible tampens down her temper and unconsciously tugs down the hems of his Quidditch shirt to cover her hands. After counting to ten in Cantonese, she spins to the Slytherin and very calmly says: "Please do not be spreading rumours of me sleeping in your bed." The humour in Draco's face vanishes without preamble and a hard edge settles in those expressive colourful eyes. He stands up with flourish and approaches her smoothly and quickly, much like a wild cat stalks its prey. When he gets within half a metre of her, Hermione steps back, unsure of what he was going to say or do to her.

"Granger-" he starts,his voice a slightly strained "-look around you for a moment." She does not take her eyes off of his. He continues, anyway: "We are trapped in my own bloody house for Merlin's sake! I've hardly got a band of Slytherin friends knocking at my door now have I? Firstly: we didn't _do anything_ together and nor should we. I, after all, have no reason to become anything more than comrades, if not…"he trails off.

"Friends! Were you about to say 'friends', Malfoy?" Hermione exclaims, astonished. The blond merely averts his gaze downwards and rakes a hand frustratedly through his slightly damp locks. "Forget it, Granger." he mutters, a bitter twang resounding from under the sneer he tries to mask it with "I never should've en thoughts such foolish things. You clearly see the notion as so ridiculous you had to-"

"Malfoy, it's not that-"

"-you had to mock even the idea-"

"I'm just surprised you-"

"-of arch-enemies coming to a truce of sorts-"

"-but Malfoy-" Hermione tries once more, voice pleading, forgetting Draco's earlier comment of not calling him by his family name in her haste to convince him that she was _not_ going against the idea of them being friends, as he'd assumed. The hard edge morphs into a steely glint.

Very quietly, he says: "Hermione, I am only going to remind you of this once, so you'd better get it into your curly head of yours now." he pats her on the head once, it's rather surreal as it juxtaposes his hard tone and menacing words. "Do not call me Malfoy again. Call me Draco or nothing." Her pretty pink lips open, perhaps to question his motives, but something stops her questions before they become vocalised. She gulps. She nods her head once to affirm she will follow the ,no doubt meaningful, command.

As abruptly as the hard glint appeared, it disappears, a smirk gracing Mal- _oh wait, no- Draco's_ face once more. He bounds away from her spritely. "Let's go to the kitchen!I'm famished." he declares, his air of regality triggering a startled giggle from the bemused witch. Honestly, Draco was so topsy turvy he was basically a rollercoaster of emotions balled inside that Greek God-like body of his. She follows him from the room dutifully, noting the new door attached to the library and how the hallway was mercifully clear from dust and debris.

"Wow, you cleared all of the study area whilst I was asleep?" she can't refrain from asking. Draco nods, ne blonde tuft still standing up at the back giving him an adorable cowlick hairstyle which a young child might have. "Yeah. I cleared it up with the aid of one of Mother's most faithful house elves- Mimi and a couple of her willing friends." Hermione's S.P.E.W project springs to the foreground of her mind and as they walk down the staircase she rants on her elf rights campaign and how house elves must not be mistreat or used for slave labour. Draco listens, attentively, assuring the passionate witch that Mimi was one of the unique ones- she was never abused and her and her companions were treated as personal handmaidens to Narcissa Malfoy to avoid and mishaps with the less merciful malfoy of the family: his father.

At the kitchen, they both take a moment to remember the first incident and the words which had been spoken there.

"Tell me where the quote was from." Hermione digs, still curious as ever. With practised word-play Draco weasels his way out of the answer, shrugging it off as something he 'just saw one time'. Hermione rolls her eyes at his evasive behaviour. They decide on making a very Bish corned beef hash- which was a thick stew full of vegetables, beef stock, and the highly acclaimed corned beef. Draco cuts the vegetables with Hermione hovering next to his right shoulder, overviewing his culinary skills and making mental notes herself in order to perfect her own skill and replicate his work to an adequate if not outstanding level. Draco smiles at this, a happy, genuine flash of lips and teeth, and it gives his face a pleasant glow which is all too quickly distinguished before Hermione sees his expression. When Hermione digs out the corned beef, Draco's lips curl into a sneer at the common item, wondering secretly to himself whether suggesting they add shrimp and calamari to the well-known recipe would sound too snobbish or not.

Hermione mimics the sneer, almost catching the look of disgust he's thrown at the time, except her eyes gleamed with mirth and her lips twitched into half-smiles. As she rambles through Draco's kitchen she mutters words under her breath. "You're not talking to yourself are you?" Draco mocks.

"No, asshole." she fires back, temper flaring. "I'm looking for your tin opener."

"And that requires muttering because…?" Draco drawls, voice deceivingly bored.

"Because..." she pulls out a wicked sharp knife from a random drawer, squints at its misplacement among the kitchen towels, then with a dismissive shrug puts it back "I need to open the tin of beef." she finishes.

She feels an odd sensation and freezes. Draco's hands are on her hips and his body, cascading lulling waves of heat, is mere inches behind her. His hair tickles her neck as he leans forwards and brushes his lips against her earlobe. Her body involuntarily shivers and a thrilling flood of anticipation and fear rush through her. She hopes that for once Draco Malfoy doesn't notice her reaction to him. The smile against her flushed cheek confirms he knows every single thing she just felt and felt her shiver against him. Returning his lips to her ear, he taunts "So, I'm an asshole now, am I?" she doesn't respond, still as frozen as though under some sort of spell. Condescension drips from his mouth like warm honey- "And here I thought we were friends." An ounce of Gryffindor returns to her although her words come out rather garbled at first: "We are friends. I was surprised earlier when you suggested it, not dismissive like you thought. But of course you're too much of an dimwit to pay attention to my feeling and so in turn acted like a prat." Her voice betrays her nervousness and it quivers slightly despite the emboldening words. He chuckles darkly against her skin, sending a rippling of goosebumps to break across her flesh.

"Tut, tut, Angel. Who knew you had such a dirty mouth on you?" he whispers seductively. This send Hermione's brain whirring at one hundred mile per second, too fast for coherent thoughts and actions… Which was the only reason for her to lean backwards, closing the inch or so separating their bodies from touching. The solid and warm embrace of his body almost triggered a dreamy sigh to escape from Hermione's lips but she bit down the sigh with a frustrated bite of her lips. _What was happening to her? Why was he acting like this towards her? Wasn't she just a mudblood to him? A peasant like in his father's eyes?_

 _ **You're not what I expected. Mudblood or not, Granger, there is something… Different about you.**_ She jerks abruptly: _What the fu-_

 _ **Language, Granger.**_ Chides the smooth velvety voice of Draco Malfoy. In her mind. Her freaking mind! Since when did Draco learn to use Occlumency!? _Don't you dare answer me in my head again! Go away, trespasser!_ She shouts internally. With a visible wince, Draco draws back from her mind and her body. Hermione's body was stiffened up in rage as Draco explains he learnt the trade from his Aunt Bella during his beginning practices in becoming a Death Eater. His voice is nonchalant through his speech, yet there is a certain firmness in his jaw and shiftiness in his gaze, which betrays Draco's unease. He stops talking when he's explained enough.

Turning back to the bubbling stew, she stirs the mixture willing her temper to calm. The dish smells divine and reminds her of hours spent helping her mother in the kitchen, bringing a well of tears to her eyes, which are quickly brushed away. Unexpectedly, Draco once again bursts into laughter.

"What?" she snaps at him. The bane of her existence stands smugly, wand loose in his hand and the metal lid of the tin lying a safe distance away from the tin revealing the beef. The lid has been removed in a nearly-perfect circle and no jagged edges around the tin remain, lowering the risk of her hurting herself.

"Why.." he speaks between fits of laughter "Did you… Not just use… Magic… To open the tin?" Hermione feels shamed and humiliated at the realisation that he was right- now that she thought of it, there was an easy spell for opening food stuff which had been taught back in fits years and was oft used in the Weasley household. "For the smartest witch of our year, you can be really dumb sometimes." Draco wheezes out, shooting her a smile to try soften the blow. She death glares back at him.

Angrily she grabs the beefs and plonks it into the stew so jerkily that it splashes huis Quidditch shirt. She smiles beatifically up at him as the smile slides off of his face at the spillage. "So sorry." she chimes sweetly, not sounding the least bit sorry. Draco shrugs, biting back the instinctive response of reprimanding her for dirtying his clothes. He realises he doesn't want to argue at the moment and concluded that this is because he's hungry and his _indigestion_ might return had she gotten truly angry with him.

The dish is made, easy taunts and names passing between the two unlikely friends. Draco feels an unusual amount of pride for the broth dish and even goes so far as to dig out his best china for the occasion. Hermione watches his pride with amusement, strangely endeared by how domestic cooking a meal with Draco was. She forcibly pushed aside her loss towards the Weasley's family meals and her own loving mother. Once they were seated and the table was set up nicely they both stare down at their meal in admiration. A wicked glint appears in Hermione's eyes as a plan starts to form behind her eyes. Draco is too pre-occupied into taking elegant spoonfuls of broth to notice. Halfway through, he regards his companion and how she had not so much as touched the meal.

"What's wrong?" he asks her. "I'm sure there's nothing wrong with it- there is ample seasoning and-" he breaks off seeing a very Slytherin-like smirk unfold on the Gryffindor witch's face. Refining her 'Draco sneer' (which was a cross between Pansy's bitch face and cool disinterest) she jeers; "I cannot eat that!" she contemptuously sniffs the air as though the very air is too lowly for her. Draco's mouth gapes open in shock. "T'is PEASANT food." she declares grandly. And with that, she erupts into hysterical giggles while Draco looks on at the strange fierce creature that Hermione Granger is.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: Wow, I'm being productive today so I'm actually updating my stories *whoop whoop*. I want to start this chapter by giving a bit of a teaser of what's to come. Three words, take them as you will: hex, kiss, (unexpected) entrance... Yeah, yeah that's actually four but what can I say? I'm a rule-breaker ;) Anyways: onto the story- enjoy!**

As the night had drawn on and both Hermione and Draco had grown sleepy due to flickering fire in the hearth casting a golden glow over the two comrades and their home-cooked stew still settling into their stomachs, Draco nudged Hermione's legs which were resting on his lap. The curly-haired witch mutters something at the first nudge but only turns to face Draco after a firm poke on the arch of her foot.

"What?" she moans, irritably. Draco smothers his smirk knowing it will only bait the witch further.

"I need to move, Granger." he says instead, shoving the mismatched stockinged feet to the ground definitively. He knew that he could- and most likely would've-fallen asleep on the couch in front of the fire but after his troubled nightmares which left him screaming and crying out for someone long gone, he didn't want Granger to witness the after-effects of such worrisome events. Which was why, during the five days of radio silence after their second day in solitary, he had cast strong silencing spells around the perimeter of whichever bed he'd rest on. It was dangerous, not only because he was more vulnerable for attack when surrounded by a Muffliato charm, but also because if anyone came for Hermione, the two-way spell would prevent him from waking up and coming to her aid. Avoiding sleep was a foolish idea as he'd heard somewhere that eleven whole days without sleep could kill a person and despite Draco Malfoy being many things; foolish was not one of them.

Suddenly a loud clanging reverberates throughout the house. Hermione startles upright, frightful whether they were under attack again. The doorbell unnerved Draco as well, that Hermione could work out by the rigidity of his jaw. As the echoes fade and the paralysing fear which froze the pair wears off, they slowly relax their stances and stand up, debating what to do. Hermione's wand was clutched in her hand and Draco also collected his own from the coffee table in front of them.

"What should we do?" Hermione whispers, her large amber eyes , doe-like in apprehension. A fist pounds one. Twice. _Three times_ on the large entryway doors. Hermione tugs down on the borrowed Quidditch shirt she had borrowed and chews her lip in worry. "Should we hide?" she whispers.

The door is blasted open all of a sudden and the wards Draco had put up start screeching, blaring out warnings and protective charms defending them both against the intruder. Draco transfigures a nearby chair into and iron-tipped baseball bat while Hermione draws closer to his side. The mad voice inside her head which has dulled during the past few days flares back to life urging her to smash tables and chairs and sing atop the destruction. Smothering the unnecessary voice, she steps closer to the door; wand out and pointed in case of attack. Mustering up her Gryffindor courage, the young witch shoves open the parlour door to check just who is battling the spells set up in the entryway lobby. At first all she sees is a masculine figure, speckled with dust from blowing apart the door and then she makes out the familiar mop of scruffy black hair and flashing emerald green eyes.

"Harry!?" she exclaims in absolute shock. Harry, having finished off the last boggart, spins to face the one person he has been yearning to see ever since that fateful day of the final battle.

"Hermione?"he gapes, rushing to meet her. Just before he reaches the object of his affections another figure intervenes and a cold voice drawls, "Back off Potter." Harry Potter slows to a halt, eyeing the blonde Slytherin warily, trying to suss out the current situation.

" _Draco."_ Hermione warns, glaring up at the scowling boy in front of her. _Since when does she call him Draco?_ Harry wonders, rather bitterly, to himself.

"How do we know he's actually Potter?" Draco spits out, distrustfully. "Have you considered he might be a trick- someone from the Death Eaters polyjuiced to look like him? Have you not forgotten what happened just the other night?" Hermione quietens at this, her bright eyes shadowing slightly in memory. Harry can't help but wonder what happened. He hates seeing enthusiastic, sweet Hermione looking so glum and melancholy.

"So test me." Harry persists, looking searchingly at his friend. When Hermione keeps her eyes lowered and mouth shut, Draco pipes up; "Maybe you should just leave. After all it's the least you could do after breaking down my door, charging in here like the arrogant prick you are." At least this provokes some response from the young witch who places a hand on Draco's arm and reprimands him with a soft but firm: "Don't."

Draco looks down at the brunette, taking in his dishevelled Quidditch top, rolled up tracksuit bottoms and the odd socks she's dug out after pranking the Malfoy heir over eating 'Peasant food' and his gaze visibly softens. "I don't trust him." he states, matter-of-factly.

"No, duh." she replies, smiling a little at the unexpected protectiveness of her newfound friend. She turns back to Harry, who's been watching their exchange with a slight frown, and asks "What was Ron trying to do to his (not-really) rat Scabbers the first time I met you on the Hogwarts train?" Harry, never breaking her gaze responds: "He was trying to turn him yellow but it failed and you remarked that it wasn't a very good spell at all." She nods affirmation to this and only then does she step forwards to hug her best friend whom she'd assumed was dead. Harry relaxes when he feels her soft warm body pressed against his and he sighs resignedly when she releases him a few moments later.

"But what happened?" Hermione questions, "What happened to everyone? I thought you must be dead!" Her tone is somber and Draco- despite despising having the boy-who-would-not-die standing in his house- knew they should move this discussion away from the lobby, so he ushers the reminiscing pair into the parlour, giving them a few minutes alone while he fixes the door.

"I was dead," Harry confesses. Hermione gasps, shocked by the admission. "But I kind of came back to life and uh saw Dumbledore who helped me and, um, well it's kind of confusing to myself if I'm honest." Draco re-enters the parlour magicking up some tea and china cups and seating himself besides Hermione on the settee. Harry, seeing the no-nonsense expression decorating Draco's features, takes a hesitant seat adjacent to the pair on a plush, pitch-black velvet armchair. He then begins his tale: from seeing Snape's memories; his true allegiance to the Order of the Phoenix and the ex-potions-masters unexpected love for his mother Lily, to Neville slaying Nagini in battle, to the duelling with Voldemort and the limbo-world of King's Cross Station to the final destruction of Lord Voldemort. During it all Draco and Hermione listen attentively, both relieved at the final death of Voldemort but each having growing concerns over what had happened since then.

"The Aurors- Kingsley Shacklebolt and the rest- are currently rounding up known Death Eaters and sending them to Azkaban for their sins." Hermione longs to talk to Draco and ask him one vital question but understands how he will not answer in front of Harry so instead she spins to Draco fully and dropping her mind-barriers she had set up when learning Occlumency on the run with Harry and Ron. Draco, catching her Amber-eyed inquisitive look, catches her intention and then reads the question her mind is supplying. He shakes his head then, with a meaningful look explains;

 _ **My parents are as good as dead. There is no way for them to be sent to Azkaban as everyone else assumes them dead.**_

 _Assumes?_

A pained look flits across his aristocratic features for half a second, so brief it could've been imagined.

 _ **Hermione, your past hold secrets that I do not pry into. Please leave mine alone respectfully.**_

Ashamed of her nosiness, Hermione lowers her gaze breaking the connection.

"I'm sorry." she whispers. Draco nods and the flicker of…. _Something_ is seen by Hermione in his eyes again.

 _ **Don't be sorry, the past is not yours to change. Only the future we can make a difference in.**_

 _Huh, that's rather poetic. I never knew you were an optimist._

 _ **I'm not.**_ Draco smirks, gestures vaguely to the tea set. _**But I felt gallows humour goes better with coffee than tea.**_

Hermione laughs, amused at the cynical statement and Draco's smirk widens at the melodic sound. Someone clears their throat and they both realise that they have completely forgotten about the other person inhabiting the room. A certain someone who now looks rather angry at their silent exchange and is put out by the Slytherin bully being so… _cosy_ towards his girl. Of course if Hermione had heard that thought, Harry was sure Madame Pomfrey would be aiding a broken nose and even worse, a broken ego, but luckily Hermione was no legilimens. What the Boy-Who-lived had forgotten, however, was that Draco Malfoy _was_ a skilled mind reader and hence he felt the burning sparks of a stinging hex brush against his forearm. Draco subtly conceals his wand and grins wolfishly at the yelp of pain Harry emits. "Ow!"

Draco drops the spell as the black-haired idol hops around the room and he already knows what is coming next- "What the hell!?" Hermione exclaimed. "Did you just fire a stinging hex at Harry?" she accuses, righteousness burning in those fiery eyes.

"And if I did?" Draco taunts, voice indifferent at Potty Potter's pain.

Harry whips out his wand and Draco stands, both squaring up against each other.

"You should apologise." Hermione demands to the sneering blond, her voice rich in authority. Draco merely raises one elegant eyebrow at her, which only seems to make Harry angrier.

"He was not being very gentlemanly, Angel." Draco replies, voice smooth with condescension. Harry widens his eyes at the inference of Draco being a legilimens then narrows them when hearing the pet name for Hermione.

"It's not very gentlemanly to invade other's thoughts without permission." Hermione points out logically. Draco rolls her eyes, resisting the childish urge to pout.

"Why the hell were you with this guy to start with Hermione?" Harry mutters spitefully, "Everybody knows he's just a cowardly Death Eater who's always acted as a spoilt brat at school and seems just as much as an arsehole as he ever was." This hits a nerve with Draco and Hermione knows that the 'coward' part had made his bristles rise in indignation. Harry, being oblivious and too het up to really pay notice to care, blithely blathers on- "Honestly I'm surprised he and his parents aren't dea-"

"Stupify!" Draco hisses between clenched teeth. Hermione tries to summon a shield charm and although the brunt of the spell is deflected a small part of it lands and Harry falls to the ground like a sack of potatoes. Draco tenses up, a spitball of emotions and anger coiling around in his gut, urging him to do more damage.

"Draco…" Hermione starts, tentatively. His stormy eyes lock on hers and the turmoil she sees there steals her breath with wonder. His breath is coming out in short shallow pants and his clenched fists drip blood from where the nails have dug in too hard. She approaches him determinedly and cups his chin down so their gaze is not broken.

"He didn't pay heed as to what he was saying. He didn't really mean what he said about your parents."Hermione comforts. The anger dissipates which each exhale and finally Draco is in enough control to sigh wearily and rake an impatient hand through his long darkened blonde hair.

"Yes he did, Hermione. The only side he got to see of my parents was the one they needed to show. Not enough people bother to look beneath the surface anymore and as much as I hate them for it, I understand it." he trails a finger across her jaw and has a brief, fleeting thought of what the fuck he was doing stroking someone he might've considered a 'mudblood' six days earlier. Instead of seeing her blood status, however, all he sees are the amber irises which stare deep inside him as if seeing his soul and not judging him for it. He sees the fierce Gryffindor Princess and the strange and funny character buried under her love of books and knowledge.

"Hermione?" he whispers, eyes dropping to her cupid bow lips. "Yes?" she utters, ensnared by his riveting gaze and the closeness of his body.

"I have a dark and twisted soul." he warns, "There are things I have done and witnessed- unforgivable, horrible things. I have more secrets than galleons and I cannot sleep at night due to the nightmares which pursue me." he confesses, gaze searching for something- something in those honey-brown orbs which will offer him redemption from the sins he has committed. Hermione does not looks scared or surprised by his admission of guilt. After considering how after Harry is re-awakened and she is embroiled back into the Weasley residency she may never see Draco again, she decides to confide in the blonde-haired ally, just this once. "The truth is Draco, you don't scare me. I have also seen and committed terrible acts. My father was an alcoholic who loved to take out his aggression out on my mother, Caroline, the most wonderful and lovely woman I ever knew-" a tear slips free from her eye "- I have been tortured both mentally and physically and sometimes-" her voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper "-I swear I'm going crazy. So Draco, you may have personal demons but as do I."

Their gaze strengthens and twists, turning into something full of need and desperation. Both are trying to find salvation and sweet relief by the other. And in a millisecond of a moment, Draco acts on his impulse and presses his lips to hers…

The sensation is electric and terrifying. At first Hermione stiffens at the feel of his soft lips against hers but as he moves them against hers she melts against him, revelling the heat intertwined in his embrace. Her hands snake up to feel inside his silky hair and he places his hands on her waist, adjusting his lips more resolutely against hers. The kiss deepens when Hermione runs her tongue over his lower lip, silently requesting entrance. He opens his mouth and the heady rush of emotions they feel when their tongues touch instigates a moan from Hermione which is quickly swallowed by her counterpart.

 _She tastes of firewhisky and vanilla and tears._

 _He tastes of bonfire smoke, coffee and something inextricably darker and sweeter with a-_ she massages her tongue with his, fighting for dominance and seeking assurance in the hot cavern of his mouth- _fruity undertone_. The kiss is broken by an unfamiliar voice- not Harry, as he is still stunned on the floor- exclaiming: "What the fuck!?"


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: So, so, so very sorry! :( I've been battling with writers block for my other story and this was kinda just was neglected for a while eek! Hopefully this explains some of the things I've mentioned in previous chapters and I *hope* that I've portrayed little ol' Ginny in a way which makes y'all both aggravated and sympathetic towards her (sorry for the cliffhanger). Enjoy! (p.s I will update life of a rose by this Sunday I promise :))**

Ginevra Weasley felt like the world had come crashing down. The love of her life- the only boy she'd ever truly fell in love with- was utterly absorbed by someone else and off on a wild goose chase to reclaim the one he truly cared for. She wasn't one to act all mopey and sad about it. But it hurt. A hell of a lot. So she did what any other slightly insecure heartbroken young girl would do and she followed him. Her temples were still pounding from what's-her-name's party last night. The hangover was brutal; a cacophony of pervasive light and overwhelming sound assaulted her. She had half a mind torn to retreat home and nurse the after-effects with hours of sleep and buckets of water. Instead, she nursed her thumping head and cradled her sunglasses against her eyes. She remembered yesterday morning, when she'd traipsed home with her heels in her hand and glitter streaked across her face. Toppling over one disarrayed garden gnome, giggling out a slurred 'Whoopsie daisy', she'd caught the attention of her mother.

The frown on her mum's face said it all. The creased forehead, the sad eyes, the tight lines around her downturned mouth. Her father wasn't by mum's side. _He's probably at the Ministry._ She'd thought. _Helping them recover from the destruction of Hogwarts._ She's swayed as she'd stilled. Under the threat of tumbling to the ground, she'd walked further on, entering the threshold. The conversation muted as they all became aware of her.

"Late night?" came a wearied voice from the kitchen table. Emerald eyes met hers and her heart skipped a beat. Those emerald eyes… Ahh, how she adored them. She nodded her head. George stifled a snort. Caught his mother's glare and left the room. The door shuts with a heavy slam. She instinctively protects her ears from the harsh sounds.

"Ginevra Weasley, you _cannot_ keep going out and partying all night! This is unfair to both me and your father and it is completely unacceptable. You sneak out robed in nothing more than scraps of fabric! What were you thinking!?" Molly Weasley's voice is like a sharp ringing. She groans in pain. Molly jabbed a finger down at the tight, black cocktail dress. Her pursed lips hold back a few undesirable adjectives. She waits for her daughter to give her an answer.

Ginny hops onto the table, stealing Harry's leftover toast, and nibbling at the crust. She gives no answer to her mother. "Don't you have anything to say for yourself? You've been out all night god knows where-"

"I was at Cassie's sisters flat-"

"-doing god knows what-"

"-dancing, smoking and making out pretty much sums it up." she surmised, thinking back on the muddled images dancing around n her mind. She finishes off the toast, swings down from the table, knocking into a vase and smashing it. Molly Weasley's eyes widen in anger and shock.

"Oops." Ginny mumbles, stealing Harry's mug and giving him a smirk as she sips from his coffee. He doesn't even notice, he's mumbling about the Malfoy house. She pouts, not liking that he's too self-absorbed to pay any notice of her, and sips loudly to no avail. She turns back to see her mother's miserable frown. The mug has been magicked together by a spell and mocks the tipsy girl from its position on the mantelpiece.

"I don't understand… The war is over. Why are you acting this way?" her mother despairs. The redhead tosses her fiery tresses over one love-bitten shoulder. She remembers through her alcohol-buzzed mind the pitying look in those emerald eyes when he'd confessed to her that he'd never loved her. It was always Hermione. Clever, beautiful, _golden-girl_ Hermione. She remembered the way he'd called her name after he'd beaten Voldemort. How when he screamed in his nightmares and sobbed until dawn it was always for _her._ Her brother was dead, her family torn and shredded right down to its very seams, and the boy she loved had stomped on her heart and pulverized it into one twisted bleeding mess. _That_ was the reason she stayed out all night and spent her waking moments with faceless people at nameless bars. She couldn't bear all the yearning, the cold shouldered neglect and the responsibilities that the Burrow shoved onto her. After all, why _should_ she stick around if all she'd see was Harry's longing for sweet little Hermione and her mother's cross hard-headed frowns?

Instead of saying all that she'd popped in some bubblegum, chewed it loudly and disrespectful snapped it in her mother's face. "Whatever." she mumbled, staggering up the stairs to get some much-needed rest.

And yet here she was now, three hours later, traipsing behind the boy-who'd-lived for what felt like the fiftieth time. She'd changed into a hoodie and jeans and had showered since the midday powwow. _Why am I doing this?_ She wonders internally. _Am I really that desperate?_ Harry shies away from some muggles crossing the street and she watches him mutter under his breath about that 'stupid malfoy' and 'I hope she's there'. She huffs out a breath, seeing him as he ducks into some nearby bushes and apparates with a loud crack. Following what she'd gleaned so far she takes muggle transport to the town closest to Malfoy manor. Walking down the streets, she curses the fact that she's not yet old enough to apparate. Weaving throughout the muggle streets she's also strangely proud of her knowledge on muggle currency. Not all of the parties she'd attended had been magical ones, some muggle raves had lured her out into the unfamiliar world, and she'd even gotten chance to make a few friends along the way. Of course they didn't know she was a witch. She wasn't quite _that_ stupid.

Listening to the crowd, she tunes her sore senses into the activity of general muggle evenings. A mother holding a little girl's hand pops into a supermarket to collect some groceries, a homeless man leans heavily against a shop storefront, his cardboard proclaiming he's both blind and deaf. She peers closely at him, watching his eyes flicker and track her movement, he tries glazing his eyes once more but it's too late. She knows he's lying. She scurries over to him and plucks the board from out of his hands.

"Hey!" he protests. She tears the cardboard in two and then into quarters. The man watches her, his blue eyes icy and cold.

"There's enough liars in the world," she says to him- thinking back on the many lies she tells her family, the hypocrisy in her speech- she pierces him with a serious look, "There's no need for any more."

Then she turns her back on the obviously not blind and deaf man and saunters away. The streets get narrower, the houses less frequent and the shops less common. The roads become more countrified and the sidewalk seeps into little more than cobblestones and dirt tracks. She wonders whether she's lost. She wonders whether she cares.

Finally, when she'd almost given up hope, she steps inside the anti-muggle charm and into the bubble encasing the splendour of the Manor. She treks forwards her feet sore with blisters and red and achy. _Thank Godric._ The door is leaning perilously on its hinges, the entrance parlour is smudged with dust and some sort of battle. She tiptoes inside, nervous and on edge. Her throat feels as dry as sawdust and her head throbs, the headache half-heartedly reminding her of her immense need for aspirin. Her palms are sweaty and a cold sweat breaks out across her brow. The sound of voices float from a door off to the side and she creeps forwards, anxious to hear what's going on. She hears the sound of Draco's voice, dark and strained, but she can't make out what he's saying. She inches closer. She hears the sound of Hermione and many emotions rush at the hot headed Weasley. Jealousy spikes, sharp and insuppressible, and it stings like a sharp slap on her cheek. She'd hoped, though she knew it was a bitchy thing to do, that the curly-locked witch would be absent. That Harry had been led on yet another false lead. But _no… Her she is chatting with Draco freaking Malfoy while everyone at home worries about her._ Then curiosity overrides her negativity and she beings to truly think. _Wait, why is she here? Why hadn't she returned to the Burrow?_ She presses her ear against the door and hold her breath.

"-I swear I'm going crazy. So Draco, you may have personal demons but as do I." Hermione's voice murmurs. _That's strange…_ Ginny ponders, _she sounded almost affectionate…_ She leans in, trying to catch anymore words exchanged. _Where's Harry? Why can't I hear him?_ Her heartbeat stutters at the thought of something bad happening to him. Mustering her strength and resolution she reaches for the handle. The ornate handle is cold against her freckled skin. _Here goes nothing…_

She opens the door. The first thing she notices is Harry, stretched out and unconscious, spread out on the rug. Her heart jumps to her throat. Worry and fear battle for prominence in her pretty little head. She turns slightly, tilts her head to the left a couple inches, her jaw flaps open in astonishment. She has to swallow back the shocked gasp. Picture this:

Hermione wrapped around Draco like a wreath. His hands encircling her waist as she rakes her fingers across his dark blonde hair. Their tongues battle for dominance. Hermione lets out a dreamy sigh and Ginny's face pales when she hears Draco's husky growl. Hermione shivers against him and for a moment Ginny has the oddest thought that this was predestined. That the golden lion and the Slytherin prince were _meant_ to be smooching in the lounge of the Malfoy aristocrats. She shakes her fiery hair, glancing back down onto her fallen saviour, burning with anger on his behalf. Hopelessly she muses on how complicated and messy and _blegh_ this would become. Her rare epiphany of the future is interrupted by a throaty moan from one of the oblivious pair and her anger and surprise barrel back at her, headbutting her full force. The oblivious couple are literally making out in front of her and freaking Harry Potter and by Godric it was _pissing her off._ In a fashion that would've made any one of her brothers proud, she declares very loudly and crossly;

"What the fuck!?"


End file.
